By The Grace of Small and Simple Magicks
by frogcollector
Summary: Sherlock crossed with Beauty and the Beast (I know). Cursed to look like and live as a monster, cut off from humanity, Sherlock despairs... until a doctor turns up on his doorstep. Beastly!Sherlock and eventual Johnlock. Rating for future safety.
1. Chapter 1

_I have no excuses. This story is the result of ill-advisedly watching _Beauty and the Beast_ with my little cousin and then having a _Sherlock _marathon with my boyfriend. This idea inserted itself in my mind, and proceeded to consume my entire brain despite me needing it for other things (such as work, conversation and breathing). I decided that the only way to get said brain back was to write the story down and escape it that way._

_The premise is simple enough: it's _Beauty and the Beast_ but with a _Sherlock_ slant on things. There's magic, curses and supernatural stuff going on. There's some also swearing, violence and some nasty stuff happening, but hopefully none of it enough to give anyone nightmares. The M rating is primarily for safety. _

_It's been a monster to write (pun intended) as firstly I had never written slash and doing so made me a bit nervous, but then the story wouldn't really work if the heroes didn't fall in love. Also, I didn't like the idea of putting Sherlock, the arch-rationalist, into a magical world, until I hit on the idea of curse-breaking (his profession in the story) being the magical equivalent of being a consulting detective. Things went more easily after that, although the characterization of Sherlock has caused me some anxiety – he was difficult to write and I'm not sure I really captured the spirit of the BBC character or Conan Doyle's original, so any and all constructive advice is welcome. My bent was towards portraying Sherlock as a brilliant but rather childish individual who has some important lessons to learn._

_John, by contrast, was an absolute pleasure to write. He's an ordinary, decent man caught up in extraordinary events in my story – even if he is stubborn as hell and too independent for his own good. Any advice on characterization is most welcome, as are reviews and constructive criticism. _

_One or two more things before the start: make no mistake, this is a loooooooooooooong story! It's mostly written, as I am generally very bad at finishing stories I've started and I've suffered the heartache of a favourite tale being abandoned and never completed. But I know where this one is going and I've no intention of giving up when I'm so close to the end. Also, and I'm only going to say this one time, there will be absolutely NO bestiality in this story. No requests for it, please, they will be roundly ignored. There will be sexy stuff going on (eventually), so hang in there and hopefully everyone will be happy ;-)_

_This story has not been beta'd, so feel free to point out typos._

_And now on with the show. Hope you enjoy!_

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_He who is unable to live in society, or who has no need because he is sufficient for himself, must either be a beast or a god – _Aristotle

He hunched unmoving in the chair next to the fireplace, long legs tucked under him so he crouched on the seat, long malformed arms wrapped around what passed for his knees. His face wore a snarl, an expression that came to it naturally. His last experiment in curse-breaking had resulted in yet more failure. Hence his appearance matched his mood – bitter, cruel, savage.

Beastly.

He was aware Mrs. Hudson was hovering nearby. The blasted woman simply wouldn't give in, saying at every opportunity that they just had to wait patiently and s_omeone _would come and set everything to rights.

She had said that about Irene Adler, as he had reminded her spitefully upon hearing her optimistic pronouncement for the umpteenth time.

'I didn't like her, you know that Sherlock, but I held my tongue seeing as you were so keen on her. But don't let her destroy your hope,' her voice said, tart and reproachful.

'I'd rather you went back to holding your tongue,' he'd growled, and, affronted, Mrs. Hudson had retired to the kitchen, which was her own exclusive domain in the huge mansion they inhabited. But she hadn't remained there for long, she never did. Her continuing loyalty was one of the few mysteries he had never been able to solve. She could have left him when the curse first descended upon him, but had chosen to stay.

And what a price she had paid for it.

He gazed into the fire, wishing, as he so often did of late, that he had courage enough to simply end it all. But something kept him from doing so, not least the knowledge that if he did so, Mrs. Hudson would be left here alone, forever in all probability. Whilst Sherlock could live with that fate – it wasn't as though he had a choice in the matter, every attempt at breaking the curse had ended in dismal failure – he couldn't bear the thought of inflicting it on Mrs. Hudson.

Damn the woman.

'Come and sit by the fire,' he called to her, uncurling himself and setting foot upon the carpet. All the rooms in the house were carpeted – he loathed hearing the sound of his claws upon stone or parquet. Once in the woods, there were leaves aplenty to muffle the sound.

He heard her footsteps advance across from the doorway. 'Will you sit with me for a little time?' she asked softly.

He hesitated, reluctant to disappoint her, but unable to stomach sitting here brooding for any longer. His efforts to become a man again were, according to all the evidence he'd accumulated, useless. He was a monster, therefore he might as well act like one.

'I'm going hunting,' he said shortly. 'I need to be away for a time. I'll be back in a couple of days.'

Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson sigh quietly, and a most unusual expression crossed his inhuman face, had he but known it. It was an odd mixture of regret, affection and impatience, but Mrs Hudson saw it. Strangely, it gave her cause for hope. The man she had known and loved since he was a babe in arms was not lost, despite what Sherlock believed.

'You're spending too much time in those woods,' she remonstrated, the chair creaking as her slight weight was lowered into it. 'You need to spend time here – being human. You get three hours a day as a human, why not make the most of them? You haven't played your violin in weeks.'

Sherlock snorted indelicately. The curse that left him shaped like this also allowed him what had first seemed a respite, later like torture, reminding him of all that he could not have, what he was forever debarred from. Three hours in every day, when he could be human. Three hours he could choose for himself. Lately though, he hadn't been bothering. He couldn't see the point, not even of playing his Stradivarius, his most treasured possession, his strongest remaining link to humanity. Such beauty as his talent could produce at will had become unbearably painful when contrasted with his own deformity.

'I have no desire to engage in futile pastimes,' he grunted after a moment, stalking away towards the door. 'Take care of yourself, Mrs. Hudson. I'll be back anon.'

He took care to walk on his hind legs whilst still in the mansion, but once out of one of the numerous doors he went on all fours, his arms were long enough for that, his legs with the same spring and elasticity of any wild animal he could put a name to. He wore his usual clothes, true, but they were always black. Black so as not to show the blood.

It had been raining in the woods, and he caught unwilling glimpses of himself in the puddles as he lunged past. There were no mirrors (except a few Mrs Hudson kept hidden from him) in the mansion, he could not stand them, and even the windows had been spelled so as not to reflect his image back at him. But he could not enchant everything in his domain, and the image shown to him in the water repelled him. Long legs that bent like the hind legs of a wolf, furred clawed feet and hands, long twisted arms, large hunched shoulders, and a poor excuse for a face, furred and with teeth and muzzle that reminded him somewhat of a panther, though lacking the panther's savage elegance. He gritted his numerous teeth and hurried on.

Long, quivering, piercing howls sounded from other regions of the woods. There were others of his kind in the woods, though none with his intellect. Sometimes Sherlock contemplated sloughing off his pretences at humanity and joining them, but in all honesty they disgusted him, even more than he disgusted himself. They were not simple animals even he could sympathise with, but cruel, brutal creatures, creations of dark magic.

No, he would continue to live alone. He belonged nowhere, with no one.

With that bitterest of thoughts uppermost in his mind, he put his muzzle to the ground, scenting prey. He soon found the trail, and the woods closed in around him as he ran.

Back at the mansion, Martha Hudson leaned her head upon her hand and sighed. Sherlock was losing all hope, she knew that, and nothing she did seemed to have any effect upon the black fit that his current condition and the cruel words of Irene Adler – their first visitor in five years, who had stayed only a fortnight, and who had been thrown out with Martha's palm print stinging on her cheek – had plunged him into. She remembered wistfully the young man of long ago, who with all the arrogance of his youth, had proclaimed that he needed no one, nothing, only his work and his sorcery. How he had eaten those words. Perhaps he didn't need friendship, or constant company, the way some other human beings needed them, but he needed love and companionship from someone in some form, of that she was certain.

How she wished she was enough for him. But that was silly, she could not be everything – mother, friend, teacher, fellow adventurer – to Sherlock, however hard she tried. He needed someone who could see past the beastliness, convince him of what she was positive lay underneath. Convince him of the good man she was sure was in there somewhere.

He needed a love of his own. The only clue they had to the breaking of his curse was that it involved another human being – in what capacity, how precisely, they had not been informed. But Martha thought she could guess, though she had not shared her surmises with Sherlock. He abhorred what he sneeringly termed 'sentimental conjecture.'

Despite his unkind words, his brooding and ill-temper, silently, she offered up a petition for him. She had met forces for the evil in the world, but Martha Hudson was quite certain there were forces for good as well, and she implored them to help. _Please, send someone to help him. Don't let him be like this forever. He can be a force for good too, I just know. Please, send someone._

A slight breeze blew through the comfortable room, cool but not chill, strong but not fierce, causing the old-fashioned fire to flicker in its grate. Shivering, Martha got up to close the window – only to realise that all the windows were shut. As was the door.

Her shiver this time had nothing to do with cold. Something had heard her plea. Something had been set in motion by her wishes, and Martha could only hope and pray that it would be the something to set her dear boy – and indeed herself – free at last.

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**Author's notes: **So there you have it, Beastly!Sherlock. The idea of the **Author's Notes **at the end of each chapter is borrowed from the wonderful fanfiction author Nana-41175, I strongly recommend you check out her work.


	2. Chapter 2

'Anderson,' Detective Inspector Lestrade grunted in deep exasperation, 'when you said you knew a shortcut, I was rather expecting it to be _short. _We've been wandering in these woods for ages.'

'It's just a little further on,' Police Constable Anderson responded, a hint of desperation in his tone despite his confident words. 'Just over that rise there...'

'No it isn't,' Dr. John Watson, their police coroner, informed them. John heaved a heavy sigh at Anderson's ineptitude as he examined a tree that stood a little to the side of the path. 'We're going in circles, I recognise the moss on this beech tree from the last time we passed this way.'

Lestrade echoed John's deep sigh, Anderson scowled, and Molly Hooper, John's stand-in assistant (the usual one was out with the flu) whimpered – she hated the woods, and she also hated the dark, and twilight was coming on rapidly.

The police (Lestrade and Anderson) and the Coroner's office (John and Molly) had been called out to a body found in a remote location near a large swathe of woodland, on the very fringes of Lestrade's division. (It turned out to be a jogger who looked as though he'd had an aneurysm). One of the police cars that had taken them to the scene had suffered a double puncture (the idiot driver had backed it through a barbed wire fence) and Anderson, suffused with bravado after recently returning from a hiking holiday in Switzerland, had suggested he and some volunteers trek through the woods to the main road and get a taxi back to the police station.

DI Lestrade had been 'volunteered' by their DCI, John had volunteered in sympathy, and Molly opted to stay with John despite her fear of the woods. And now they were hopelessly lost. John hoped that the bugger Lestrade called boss was satisfied.

'I knew it,' their stalwart Inspector groused loudly to no one in particular. 'I also should have known better to listen to you,' he snapped, this time to Anderson. 'Hiking in the Alps, indeed... Has anyone got a signal on their mobile?' Everyone checked, but their phones all proclaimed _no service. _So Lestrade turned to their next best option. 'John, could you navigate us out of here?'

Their doctor, a man of many talents – a former army surgeon to boot, and possessor of a good sense of direction – shook his head. 'I looked at a map of these woods before we came out, but I don't recognise any landmarks at the moment, and I can't navigate properly until we find a few stars,' he replied. 'But the east is _that _way, judging by the light, and since we've been travelling more or less south since we entered, if we turn right and keep headed in that direction we should get out of the woods sooner or later. Probably later in all honesty, it's practically a forest.'

'Then let's get going!' Molly exclaimed eagerly, but John shook his head.

'It's not as simple as that, Molly,' he said gently. 'We can't go in a straight line through the woods, there are too many obstacles. We'll have to stick to the paths and hope one of them takes us in roughly the right direction.'

Molly whimpered again. Anderson rolled his eyes, and John glared at him. Molly wasn't the toughest or bravest of people, but since Anderson had gotten them into this mess in the first place John's sympathy was firmly with his reluctant assistant. 'Don't fret, Molly,' he advised her kindly. 'Worst comes to worst, we spend a night bivouacking in the woods and find our way out in the morning. I'll make us a nice fire and Lestrade's got that secret stash of chocolate.'

'How do you know about that?' Lestrade asked in mock outrage, earning a watery giggle from Molly and one of John's rare smiles. Anderson carried on frowning, but nobody paid him any attention as they began to follow John down another path. Lestrade in particular found his subordinate's expression of pique rather enjoyable, even though he knew it was mean of him. Anderson had a high opinion of himself out of all proportion to his capabilities, and it was gratifying to see him having to cede to John, the most unassuming of men.

They made quicker progress under John's guidance, and certainly they no longer seemed to be going in circles. Anderson was sulking, but at least Molly was looking a bit chirpier, despite the fact that the sun was setting and the shadows were beginning to stretch out their limbs, wrapping themselves around every tree and bush, stone and stray leaf.

They had walked peacefully for a mile or so when they heard the first howl.

'W-what was that?' Molly quivered, coming to an abrupt halt. John didn't blame her – the sound had even him breaking out in goose-bumps.

'Probably just a dog,' Lestrade suggested laconically as he came to a stop alongside them both, but even as he did so he could see John looking concerned. Lestrade stepped away from Molly and over to his favourite colleague.

'Problem?' he asked quietly. John scanned the woods on either side of the path, searching for something, anything that might have made the noise, before shaking his head.

'Probably not,' John answered finally. 'It's just that… it just didn't sound like a dog to me. We'd better keep moving, to be on the safe side.'

Lestrade chuffed a short laugh. 'What else could it be but a dog, John? There's only dogs and foxes in these woods, and I don't think foxes howl.' John didn't laugh however, and Lestrade decided, regardless of how nervy their doctor was, he was more than willing to follow John to somewhere that was hopefully warmer and safer than their present location. 'Well, if you're worried, lead on, MacDuff,' he muttered.

John did so. They hadn't gone a hundred metres before they heard the next howl.

John halted them this time. '_That _definitely wasn't a dog,' he pronounced. Once, when he had visited a friend in Canada, he had driven out to a national park and been lucky enough to hear wild wolves howling their sad lullabies at the moon. This howl held the same streak of wildness, but was less of a song and more of a screech. A brutal, nasty, discordant screech at that. John had once read a poem that proclaimed 'every wolf and lion's howl raises from hell a human soul.' The howl they had just heard was far more likely to cause damnation than salvation in his opinion.

'Then what in God's name was it?' Lestrade asked, the general feeling of nervousness beginning to affect him. 'It can't be anything like a wolf or a hunting dog, not unless something's escaped from a zoo nearby.'

John reached to pull the shivering Molly closer, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulders. Molly looked terrified, but John saw that she was taking deep breaths in order to calm herself, a technique he'd shown her when she was worked up about a boyfriend who'd turned out to be a career burglar. He felt proud of the girl – he was sure Molly had guts underneath the timidity.

'I don't know what it was, Lestrade,' John answered steadily. 'But I don't like the sound of it. We've got a choice to make – carry on and hope it leaves us alone, or we try and find somewhere safe to spend the night and make our way out of here in the morning.'

'Oh, for Christ's sake,' Anderson interjected loudly. 'It's just some animal that's got a scent in its nostrils, and you're all acting like it's the Creature from the Black Lagoon. Let's just keep walking, I think I know where we are now...'

'Shut up, Anderson' Lestrade and John said in unison.

'Let's take a vote,' John suggested. 'Molly?'

'Oh, please let's find somewhere to stay,' Molly pleaded a bit breathlessly. 'I know I'm a wimp –' there was a noise of agreement from Anderson, which cut off abruptly as Lestrade shot him a glare that could have etched glass. 'But I can't face the thought of trekking through the woods when _something's _out there hunting – hunting us, maybe.'

John nodded. 'Greg?'

'I agree with Molly,' Lestrade said firmly, mostly for Anderson's benefit. 'It's getting too dark to walk through these woods with any safety, and if you both think there's something dangerous out here I'm quite prepared to try and find somewhere secure to stay. How about you, John?'

'I say we find somewhere to hole up,' John agreed. 'We're still pretty much lost, it's getting dark and cold and I don't know what's out there but I don't fancy meeting it. I read up about this place before we came out here – it used to be part of a big estate that had a huge manor, the gentry used to hunt game in these woods. If we're lucky we'll find an old cottage or some building that housed horses or equipment.'

'What about the manor house itself?' Molly asked, momentarily forgetting fear in favour of interest. John shook his head.

'I think it's been demolished, Molly,' he answered. 'I couldn't find an exact date for the demolition in any police or historical records, but apparently nobody's clapped eyes on it for at least five years. Someone from Cambridge's history department went searching for it a couple of years back but never found so much as a brick.'

'Three in favour of camping then,' Lestrade announced, before the discussion could get too off-topic. 'Don't bother voting against, Anderson, you're outnumbered. John, which way should we go to find shelter?'

Anderson folded his arms and scowled like a petulant child as John released Molly's shoulder and turned a slow circle, keen eyes searching out every path as the last of the daylight was dragged down over the horizon.

'That way, I reckon,' John decided after a few moments. 'The big manor house was in the western part of the woods, according the map I looked at, so if we head that way we should come across some remnants of the estate.' He decided there was no need to mention that the direction he'd chosen lay in the opposite one to where the howling was located.

'Okay, then,' Lestrade said, relieved to have settled on a plan. 'Let's get –'

He cut himself off abruptly as a long, low, leaden growl sounded – _close._

They all spun round to stare at the murky woods from whence the sound issued. But there was nothing there, save shadows, twisted tree trunks, and scattered leaves from old autumns.

Then one of the shadows _moved._

Anderson was the one to break the horrified silence. 'My God! What _is _that?'

No-one had an answer for him, Molly because she was paralysed with terror, John and Lestrade because they hadn't the faintest idea and were also too scared to speak for several tortuous seconds. Absurdly, the only thing that came to John's stunned mind was _werewolf_. The creature was no dog, fox or wolf, for all that its shape was vaguely canine. It stood on bent, springy hind legs, its arms were long enough for the knuckles to drag on the ground caveman fashion, its eyes blazed yellow and it had entirely too many sharp white teeth set into a blunt muzzle. It was covered in thick black fur, its numerous claws were long and wickedly sharp and it had bloodlust in those glaring golden eyes.

'Nobody move,' Lestrade said in a harsh whisper. 'Stay still...'

John wished he'd thought to bring his (illegally held) army revolver. Lestrade would probably have overlooked the lawbreaking if John shot the creature currently considering them as dinner. But since he didn't have it, and as that line of thought wasn't doing them any practical good, he cast his eyes about for another weapon. Plenty of dead wood, some stones, nothing too substantial though... John risked another glance at the creature. It hadn't moved – perhaps, if they were very lucky, it would get bored and move off, or perhaps just throwing something at it would scare it off, wild animals preferred easy prey after all...

But the creature had other ideas. It let out a rabid snarl and leapt from its shadowy camouflage, landing heavily just in front of them. It was too much for Anderson, who broke and ran blindly into the woods. His action shattered Molly's inertia, and she went hurtling into the woods after him. The creature barely even looked at the unmoving John and Lestrade, but went bounding after the fleeing Anderson and Molly.

'Shit!' Lestrade yelled, and took off after them all, John hard on his heels.

The creature, whatever the hell it was, was unnaturally fast. Within a few leaps it had caught up with Molly and with a truly mind-boggling spring jumped on her and sent her crashing to the ground. If it hadn't paused to let out another brain-blistering howl, this one of triumph, Molly would have been dead in seconds. As it was, the terrible screech gave John and Lestrade the vital moments needed to catch them up.

John saw the awful tableau taking place, realised that Molly's life was mere instants away from gushing out of her onto the dank ground in a torrent of blood, and did not hesitate. He jumped on the creature's back and got his arms around its muscular throat.

'For fuck's sake, John!' Lestrade shouted. John barely heard him, concentrating as he was on trying to choke the monster to death, or at least unconsciousness. At least he had distracted it from the prone Molly – it reared upwards, ready to claw at John's arms or tear him from its back, but John's weight unbalanced it, and it went staggering backwards. Encouraged, John drove a booted foot into its side and was gratified to hear a grunt of pain.

Unable to snatch hold of John without losing its footing, the creature sank back down on all fours and started spinning and bucking, trying to shake him off. John held on tightly as the creature flung itself about in all directions, praying he had the strength to outlast the monster – otherwise his fate would surely be a bloody and terrible one.

Lestrade meanwhile, had not been idle. Cursing at everything and nothing all at once, he grabbed the first sturdy implement that came to hand – an old branch, withered but strong and solid. He danced round the battling pair, looking for an opportunity to strike, and sure enough it came. The creature paused, dizzy, and Lestrade belted it a good one across a foreleg. It let out another nerve-shredding screech, which reached a crescendo as John kicked it again.

_Thwack! _A stone hit it square on the forehead. Lestrade looked round distractedly, and saw to his astonishment that Molly had regained her feet and with them some courage. She scrabbled for another missile amongst the leaves and dirt, found another rock and let fly. This one struck the creature solidly on its sensitive muzzle.

Beset on all sides by what it had thought to be easy prey, the creature shrieked a last protest, and then flung itself backwards. John, sensing the direction in which they were falling, let go and managed to push himself just clear of the creature as it landed heavily on the ground. It was up again in a trice and away through the trees.

Lestrade watched it go and made sure of its departure before he turned back to John and Molly. 'Are you both okay? Molly? John?' he asked wildly.

'I'm fine,' Molly asserted shakily. 'It just knocked the wind out of me.'

'Same here,' John grunted, shoving himself to his feet. He suspected he'd ache like hell in the morning, but right now adrenaline was flowing too strongly for him to feel any pain. He staggered over to Molly, who flung herself at him and hugged him.

'Thank you,' she whispered to him. He hugged her back, relishing the feeling of holding and being held after the battle that had just taken place.

'Thank _you_,' he answered. 'That's one heck of a right arm, Molly.'

'I hate to break up the mutual admiration society, but we need to get the hell out of here,' Lestrade said bluntly. 'That thing might come back, and we'd better see where Anderson's got to. He's an idiot, but I wouldn't wish _that _monster on my worst enemy.' He paused. 'Besides, shouldn't _I_ get some credit for fighting it valiantly?'

'Oh, you were brilliant,' Molly assured him.

'Could've played for the England cricket team if you hadn't become a police officer,' John deadpanned. Lestrade grinned at them both, recognising the grim humour in their statements, and everyone's spirits lifted just a little.

Their spirits soon sank back into their boots and ran out through the toes as they hurried through the darkened woods in the direction they had last seen their colleague heading in, calling as loudly as they dared for Anderson and receiving no response except for occasional howls that made them all jump into the air like startled birds. To John's dismay, he thought he could distinguish several different creatures screaming their rage into the night – the howls varied somewhat in length, pitch and timbre, but once again he decided not to tell Lestrade and Molly. There was no point in demoralising them even further. He nearly jumped out of his skin at one point when he noticed some orange eyes staring at them, but realised to his relief that it was merely an owl.

Funnily enough, the owl seemed to follow them for a time. John caught at least two more glimpses of those large round eyes gazing at them.

They had come a longish way – John reckoned nearly two miles – before they heard something that wasn't their own voices or one of the nightmarish yowls.

It was a tremulous little voice calling 'Inspector! Inspector!' in hoarse tones, very unlike Anderon's usual loud, self-important intonation. They all hurried in the direction it came from, only to be confronted with a huge wall at least ten feet in height, stretching away in both directions in the gloom, made of elegant grey stone, topped with large rounded stone spheres at intervals.

'Anderson!' Lestrade hissed in confusion, looking round for his troublesome subordinate. 'Where the hell are you?'

'Here!' A small bush nestled up against the high wall rustled as Anderson emerged from his feeble hiding place, looking both sheepish and frightened, but apparently unhurt. 'I had to hide, those bloody owls wouldn't leave me alone, they kept coming at me –'

John was about to interrupt Anderson's ramblings when he noticed that there was indeed an owl watching them from a low branch – a beautiful bird with tufts above its eyes and brown and black and rust-coloured feathers. It winked at him, before swooping away silently.

John stared after it. What the hell?

Anderson was still babbling on about crazed birds, but didn't appear to be hurt in any way. John wasn't sure whether to be relieved or annoyed at finding Anderson unharmed, despite his evident fear. Lestrade seemed equally uncertain and after telling the other man to shut up and making a few gruff enquiries into whether Anderson was injured or not, turned his back on his subordinate in favour of examining the imposing stone structure.

'I wonder if this is part of that big estate you mentioned, John,' Lestrade mused out loud. 'If there is, there must be an entrance somewhere. If we can get inside and wait until morning before we set out again, we should be safe from that monster.'

'I'm all in favour,' John agreed. 'Shall we look for an entrance or try and scale the wall?'

'Scale the wall!' Molly said at once. 'Let's not waste time!'

Accordingly, Lestrade gave John a leg up and after some scrabbling, he managed to haul himself onto the top of the wall and sling one leg over the other side for balance. Molly was next up, then Anderson (bleating protests the whole way) and finally Lestrade took a run at the wall, got one foot against it and launched himself upwards, and was grabbed by John and Molly and hauled unceremoniously onto the stonework.

Perched on top of the high wall, everyone felt immeasurably better, even though the creature (or creatures) would probably easily be able to jump ten feet or more. Still, this felt defensible.

'Anyone see anything?' Lestrade asked once he'd got his breath back.

'Lots, as a matter of fact,' John said with some surprise.

The moon had uncloaked itself and was shining brightly, and they could see everything on the other side of the wall with clarity. There were certainly trees, but old, majestic trees, that sank their roots into manicured, carefully tended grass. A little way from the seemingly endless wall, the trees gave way to long sloping lawns that drew the eye towards a vast mansion, built with the same grey stone as the wall. John knew little of architecture, but he thought the design looked neo-classical. Certainly there were plenty of columns, clean lines and high windows.

'It's the manor house you mentioned!' Molly exclaimed, not without pleasure. 'It wasn't demolished after all.'

'This is weird,' John muttered as he assessed their surroundings. 'It's massive, how on earth did that person from Cambridge manage to miss it? How come no-one else has spotted it either? Surely some ramblers or bird-watchers would have come across it at some point, it can't have just vanished for five years.'

'I haven't the foggiest, but it looks well-tended,' Lestrade answered. 'Let's go and see if there's a caretaker or someone knocking about, who'll let us spend the night. If we're lucky they'll have a phone too.'

Everyone made the leap to the ground safely, with John, Lestrade and Molly all managing to land on their feet, and Anderson landing with a thump on his backside. Molly had the grace to wince, but John and Lestrade shared a grin at Anderson's groan of pain – they were still angry over his earlier desertion.

They made their way up the lawns without further incident, to what seemed to be one of the sides of the great house. A terraced walkway punctuated by potted shrubs – again, carefully tended – ran around the sides of the mansion. Lestrade led them off to the right, where the terrace appeared to end and give way to another kind of walkway, and sure enough they found themselves at the front of the house, which instead of a terrace was covered in gravel, and had a long drive leading off from the house and vanishing off into the darkness cast by the trees that lined it.

They mounted the numerous steps at the front of the house up to what would be called a porch if it weren't so vast. Huge, polished doors in some deep brown wood, with heavy, black painted metal handles met them at the top of the stairs. There were no lights on in any of the numerous windows, however.

They all stood looking at one another, nervous, uncertain, and still a little frightened.

Then John spoke. 'We've come too far to stop now,' he said firmly, and, reaching for the knocker, slammed it three times against the wood of the door, stood back, and waited.

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**Author's Notes: **the couplet 'every wolf and lion's howl/ raises from Hell a human soul,' is indeed by William Blake, and can be found in _Auguries of Innocence_, thought to have been written in 1803, though the exact date of its composition is unknown. It was first published in 1863. An 'augury' is a sign or omen (source: Wikipedia).


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I forgot this first time round! Not mine, never will be, just playing. Have fun!

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Mrs. Hudson was just preparing supper when the knock at the door rang throughout the mansion, and was so startled she almost committed the unforgivable and nearly dropped her best china tea service on the floor. It wasn't that it couldn't be mended by various means, but it was the principle of the thing. Still, she caught herself before the tray fell through her lax fingers.

The knock came again, slightly louder and more forceful this time. She knew it couldn't be Sherlock, who never bothered knocking, and those creatures in the woods wouldn't have the brains to work out what a door knocker was for, even if they had somehow breached the mansion's defences – the wards put in place to repel them – and come up to the front door. This could mean only one thing.

Supper forgotten, she snatched up a candle and went hurtling to the main doors of the mansion. She paused, and then forced herself to look through one of the windows bordering the entrance instead of just flinging the door wide open as she wished to. Sure enough, there were _people _waiting outside, looking cold, exhausted and nervy. There were three men and one woman – a girl, really.

Martha carefully put down her candle, and then clapped her hands together in delight. Surely _this _– one of these people – was the answer to her plea. She would have to keep them here until Sherlock returned, but that was easily done. Martha Hudson had her little ways, for all that her dear boy dismissed them.

And with that thought firmly in mind, she opened wide the door.

* * *

Everyone jumped back as the huge, heavy door swung open. John waited a moment to see who appeared around it to meet them, but when no-one materialised, stepped into the interior of the hall to see who – or what – awaited them.

Darkness, pierced by the light of a single candle set on a small table, and nothing more. John frowned in puzzlement and moved further into the hall. 'Hello?' he called out. 'Is anyone there?' He went over and caught up the candle, lifting up the little light to try and see into the shadows that gathered in every corner and crevice. It was a huge, rectangular room from what he could see – a set of sweeping stairs faced the door and led to an upper gallery that ran around three sides of the room. There were marble columns aplenty, and high mahogany doors leading off in all directions. A massive crystal chandelier hung, unlit and motionless, from the high ceiling. The floor was so thickly carpeted that John sank into it nearly to his ankles as he walked. It seemed odd to have a carpeted hall in such a huge house, and he hoped that he wasn't trampling mud everywhere.

His colleagues wandered in slowly, Lestrade leading the way. 'Anything, John?' he asked in a loud whisper. John shrugged, and then, spotting candle holders dotted at intervals around the wall, went to light them and shed a bit more light on the scene. The carpet turned out to be dark green in colour, to his relief, so dirt wouldn't be too visible.

'Candles? That's strange,' Lestrade commented as John went about his work. 'Every stately home I've ever seen had electricity installed.'

'Perhaps they only installed electricity in a few rooms for people to live in,' John suggested, being careful not to drip hot wax on any of the beautifully carved pieces of furniture that the gentle light was revealing to them. 'The bills would be astronomical if you had to light up the entire place.'

'Mmmmm, they would be,' said someone close to his elbow.

John turned in that direction, expecting that Molly had wandered up behind him – but she was on the other side of the hall, looking at a large painting of a pastoral scene. Bewildered, John looked round, but neither Lestrade nor Anderson was standing close to him. And he could have sworn he heard a female voice.

John shook his head. He must be more rattled from their being lost and chased by that monster than he had previously realised. 'I'm hearing things,' he muttered to himself.

'Of course you are, dear,' it said this time, from directly in front of him.

John _knew _he hadn't imagined that. He put out a hand in front of himself, to see if it landed on something, but he felt nothing but empty air. But a little scuffling sound made itself known, as though someone had stepped back hastily.

John stared into empty space. _A ghost_? He wondered. He would have scorned the suggestion just hours earlier, but after being chased by a strange beast through the woods and coming across a mansion that no-one had seen for years, his conception of reality was undergoing some adjustment. 'We're not here to hurt anyone or steal anything,' he murmured to whatever-it-was, conscious that Molly was looking at him curiously. 'We just need to shelter for a night.'

'Right you are, dear.'

John sighed. He was talking to thin air, and it was answering back, and it wasn't even the most alarming thing to have happened that night. Molly was still giving him funny looks, but she, Lestrade and the jittery Anderson (still muttering objections) didn't appear to have heard the disembodied voice.

'Here, shut the door,' Lestrade said, unaware of John's unease, going to do just that. 'Let's keep the warm in and that – _thing _– out. Right, we'd better try and find the owner and ask if there's a phone or if we can at least stay the night.'

And as if in response to his words, a door swung open on the left of the hall.

Everyone jumped except John – who, after all that had ensued, didn't feel surprised. He wasn't sure what was going on here, but he had a peculiar feeling that someone was trying to be welcoming. He stepped forward to investigate.

He found a short corridor, in darkness but with a light shining invitingly through a door that stood ajar at its far end. Holding up his candle so he didn't trip over anything, he ventured down the passageway, pushed open yet another heavy, old-fashioned door, to discover a comfortable little sitting room, furnished with scarlet upholstered furniture – high-backed chairs, a little couch, tables carved from some dark wood, long velvet curtains. It looked to John like a room straight out of the Victorian era, but the furniture showed signs of use, and best of all, there was a fire burning in the grate underneath the ornate mantelpiece.

'John?' he heard Lestrade ask from just behind him, a wealth of meaning in the word. He smiled ever so slightly.

'I think we're okay to spend the night,' he said, stepping aside and letting everyone else in. Lestrade strolled around the perimeter of the room, checking for entrances and exits and to see if everything was secure, Molly headed gratefully over to the warm fire and held her hands out to it, and Anderson flopped heavily onto an intricately carved rocking chair over by one wall.

'Well, really!' the voice said in reproach. John smiled at its indignation – not so Lestrade, who whirled round and flicked his eyes all over the room, looking for its source. His gaze lingered for a short time on Molly, still warming herself, but it didn't look as though Lestrade had managed to convince himself that she was the voice's owner.

John wandered over to him. 'I heard it too,' he said quietly. 'I heard it in the hall, as well. I think it means well. It said we could stay for a night.'

'_It?_' Lestrade echoed incredulously, though like John he kept his voice down. 'I don't like this John, not one bit! Monsters, a mansion that isn't supposed to exist and ghostly voices? I feel as though we've wandered into some Lovecraft story.'

John, who had never read H. P. Lovecraft (poetry was his secret love) and who despite the spookiness was feeling oddly at ease, only shrugged. 'We've not much choice, Greg,' he answered softly. 'Either we sleep here or head back into the woods. Let's stay and we'll be on our way in the morning, and maybe whoever lives here will appear by then and we can explain matters and see if they want recompense.'

Lestrade sighed heavily, not remotely happy with the situation, but he acknowledged the truth in John's words. An hour passed, Lestrade shared out his chocolate, and Molly took off her shoes and curled up on the small sofa, using her coat for a blanket. She was soon dozing, fear and exhaustion combining to seduce her to sleep, and Anderson, having migrated to a cosy chair by the fire, followed suit. Lestrade, nervous about the whole situation, was less inclined to sleep, but John could see he was dropping with weariness. He felt like some shuteye himself.

Yawning, John went to extinguish the candles in the hall for safety – only to discover the huge room was already in darkness. He felt one of the candlewicks, and felt it was cool. It must have been out for some time. He paused, feeling as though he ought to say something. But what – and to who? Nothing about this place made sense, and yet...

'Thank you,' he said at last. 'For letting us stay. It's very much appreciated.'

He waited, but no response was forthcoming. He headed back down the little passage to the sitting room, where he saw that Lestrade had nodded off in an easy chair. The fire was burning lower in the grate, but the room was still warm. John sat down in the remaining chair by the fireplace, watching the flames dance... they were getting smaller and feebler, but no less nimble... and they were quite beautiful... flickering, dancing, smouldering...

John was halfway between asleep and awake when he heard the voice say, 'you're quite welcome, my dear.' He tried to respond, but sleep caught him, and pulled him into the world of the dreaming, even as the voice faded in his ears.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson's gaze lingered on each of her sleeping guests in turn. She had no liking for the one they called Anderson – so uncouth. And he'd sat in her own special rocking chair. The girl, Molly, seemed sweet, but she was far too timid for what Mrs. Hudson had in mind for one of them. Sherlock would terrorise the poor thing.

Which left the two other men who were currently sleeping peacefully in the sitting room; would it be the commanding man with salt-and-pepper hair, or the gentler one with fair hair and deep blue eyes? Of the two, it was the latter she was more interested in – she liked him already. John, the others had called him. And he'd heard her speak at once – with Irene Adler she'd prattled on for nearly a week before the other woman realised she was there.

It had been very nice of him, considering how confusing it all must be for the poor man.

Of course, Sherlock might feel differently about them. But Martha could always hope.

She shut the door carefully. No bed for her tonight – Sherlock would return tomorrow and the situation would have to be explained. Failing that, her guests would have to be delayed here until he did come home, but that would not be difficult, as she had mused earlier. She settled herself in the room next door, that had been the study of her dear friend Violet years earlier, and which she kept fresh and clean, despite the fact that it was never used these days.

_Tomorrow_, she thought, as she nodded off. _Tomorrow, it will all come right..._

And it might have, had Sherlock not crept into the mansion along with the dawn.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **not mine, they belong to Sir Arthur and the BBC, I'm just borrowing. I hope you're all enjoying the story so far!

* * *

The dark of the night had faded to grey by the time Sherlock stalked angrily up the long gravel driveway back to the mansion. His hunt had been a dismal failure. The doe he'd tracked for miles had proved a more cunning adversary than he'd been prepared for, and had evaded his claws. He was exhausted, ravenous, and furious at himself and the world in general. It was an unpropitious moment for a change in his circumstances.

He let himself in at the main entrance, and, with some difficulty, straightened until he stood on two legs once more. He snorted – he'd be fit for nothing until he ate. He hated the physical demands of this beastly form, but he was forced to concede to them. He'd raid the pantry for some raw meat and hunt again tonight... Sherlock glanced idly at the floor as he thought.

_The impression of a foot – no, feet._ _On the carpet._ _And not Mrs. Hudson's. _

The information passed through his brain faster than the speed of sound and an instant later he was at the door to the sitting room. Animal's ears picked up the sound of four people, all asleep, one snoring loudly, one snoring quietly, two more just breathing. He reached out one wickedly clawed hand and pushed the door open.

He stood, incredulously, for an instant. There had been only one single visitor to the mansion in the five years since the curse descended upon them, and now here were four. Three men, one woman, all of whom had been hunted through the woods by his compatriots judging by the mud spatter on their clothes (from running) and the small snags in the fabric (some from thorns and other debris, but the tears in the woman's coat were definitely from claws). Two of the men were police officers, judging by their shoes (black, unadorned, suitable for a job that required conventionality but with extra grip on the soles in case of physical exertion), the girl worked in a laboratory of some description, probably with dead bodies also (the distinctive smell of formaldehyde emanating off her clothing and the callused fingers caused by sewing with particularly tough thread, mostly likely on corpses), the dark-haired man was a smoker, judging by his snoring, and the last of them, the fair-haired one, the quiet one...

_Was looking at him._

Sherlock had been so preoccupied in practising his deductive reasoning (it had been _years _since he'd had the chance to apply it to multiple humans) that he'd completely failed to register the change in breathing pattern from one of his unexpected guests. How unbelievably _stupid _of him!

And now he was being regarded by deep blue eyes.

Sherlock looked back, and ice blue met deep blue.

It was only the shock that was keeping the fair-haired man silent and still, from his vantage point on one side of the fireplace. But as Sherlock looked, he saw shock loosen its hold in the other man's eyes, just a little – to allow another emotion through. Surprise? Speculation?

_Interesting._

But Sherlock had no more time for analysis. The dark-haired man, snoring away on the other side of the fireplace, snorted at something in his sleep, blinked awake in an instant, spied Sherlock hovering in the doorway and let out a blood-curdling shriek. And then things got very confused.

'Anderson!' The fair-haired man sprang up. 'Don't!'

Anderson ignored him and dived over the arm of the chair. The other two occupants of the room came awake immediately, the man with salt-and-pepper hair springing to his feet in readiness, the girl sitting bolt upright in terror. She let out another scream, one Sherlock would have described as glass-shattering. It was enough to make him wince and start backwards out of the room.

'Molly, no! Greg – everyone – just stay calm! It's not the one that attacked us in the woods!' the fair man cried out.

'John!' the girl cried, grabbing hold of some shoes from the floor by the sofa and scrambling towards him. The man with salt-and-pepper hair – Greg – was wide-eyed and Sherlock could sense his fear, but he was controlling himself quite admirably. He leapt over to join John and the girl – Molly – and all of them, stood and faced what they thought was a mindless, ravening monster.

For an endless second, everyone just looked. Sherlock was running through possibilities in his quicksilver mind, wondering whether to depart, return as a human and offer some excuse for his monstrous alter ego (a stray or a creature he kept as sentry) or to brazen it out and pretend to be a dumb but friendly beast (humiliating, and his clothes would require much inventive explaining away, whatever option he chose, but needs must).

And then Anderson did quite possibly the worst thing anyone could have done in their present circumstances. From his hiding place behind the chair, he got hold of the first thing that came to hand and hurled it at the creature lurking in the doorway. Which might not have been so bad, had it not been Sherlock's Stradivarius, which he had left lying by the fireplace.

The delicate instrument missed Sherlock entirely, but struck the doorframe violently. There was a hideous crack of shattering wood, a moan as the strings were wrenched from their pegs, and Sherlock's most cherished possession lay at his feet, a splintered, mangled mess.

'Oh, no!' came a female voice from somewhere behind Sherlock, and some remote part of him registered Mrs. Hudson's presence. But he was too preoccupied with the fate of his violin to pay her any mind. He stared in horror at his beloved Strad before dropping to all fours and reaching out to touch the wreckage in disbelief. 'No. No!' he cried.

'What the –' the silvery-haired man uttered in astonishment. 'You can talk?'

Sherlock leapt back onto two hind feet, incandescent with rage, lips pulled back in his most savage snarl, rearing back up to his full height of nearly seven feet. 'You utter fool!' he roared at Anderson, who took the easy way out of his plight, and fainted.

'Oh, spare me,' the fair man muttered as Anderson hit the floor in a heap, but Sherlock was too enraged to appreciate the man's coolness in the face of danger. Growling, he turned on the three people still standing. The girl screamed and hid her face in the shoulder of the fair man.

Sherlock's capacity for rational thought was all but erased by her terror. His rage was appalling he knew, but the fear of those standing in front of him was caused by his difference, his monstrosity. He despised himself already – was that not enough? What right did these intruders have to come here and remind him of what he'd been reduced to?

'I should slaughter every one of you for this!' he rumbled. 'In fact, I think I will. Starting with _him!_' He lunged towards the unconscious man – only to find his path blocked by the fair man. John, that was what they had called him.

Sherlock halted, dumbfounded. He was nearly seven feet worth of concentrated bloodthirstiness and malevolence, and this man saw fit to throw himself in his way? He was either tremendously brave or even more stupid than most. Perhaps both.

'Stop!' John protested. The greying man made a grab for him, and got hold of his arm, but didn't manage to pull him out of Sherlock's way. 'Look, he's an idiot, and we're really sorry about the violin –'

'_Sorry?!_' Sherlock sputtered. 'That violin was the most precious thing in this house and you destroyed it! You think a mere apology will suffice? I want _blood_!'

John blanched, but stood firm. 'You can't kill him. Not just for being stupid.'

Sherlock snarled, contemplating just shoving the man aside and falling on the idiot still lying dead to the world, but he had to admire John's gutsiness. 'Why ever not?' he growled.

'Well, if you went about killing everyone who's stupid, you wouldn't have time to breathe,' John answered, and despite himself, Sherlock smirked inwardly, though he maintained his expression of ferocity. 'And please, don't take a man's life over an instrument. It's hardly a fair trade.'

'Listen to him, dear,' came Mrs. Hudson's voice.

'I agree, it's hardly a fair trade,' Sherlock said coolly, and he saw John and heard Mrs. Hudson heave premature sighs of relief. 'One life isn't nearly enough for what you've done,' he continued, snarling rabidly, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's squeak of protest. 'I hold you all responsible for this! You come here, find shelter from what hunted you and repay hospitality in this manner? And think you can fob me off with an apology?'

He lunged and caught hold of John's free arm with his clawed hand. The man named Greg started forward but Sherlock simply knocked him off his feet onto the sofa with a single swipe, where he lay stunned. The girl screamed again, but Sherlock paid her no heed. He bent his long arm, pulling John forward, pulling him up, so that the man had to stand on tiptoe to maintain his balance. So they stood, face to face. John looked up at him, fearful but resolute.

'I want a life for this! His, the girl's, yours, it doesn't matter, but _I want my due,_' Sherlock growled at him. And he did – he wanted to claw, tear, gouge, rend limb from limb.

John took a deep breath. 'Fine. You want a life? Have mine, then.'

'No!' Greg shouted. Molly whimpered a protest, and Mrs. Hudson made a noise of exclamation, but neither Sherlock nor John paid anyone any heed. The world for them had narrowed to the man and the beast, looking one another in the eyes, searching for any weakness or compassion or unawareness that would allow them to emerge victorious.

Sherlock stared into the eyes of the man facing him and saw that John meant what he said. His life for those of his companions – and just like that, an idea, a plan, fully-formed, emerged in Sherlock's ingenious brain. This man's sense of duty and self-sacrifice could be made excellent use of in Sherlock's efforts at breaking his curse.

'That... is an intriguing idea,' he drawled speculatively, watching John carefully for his reaction. 'My master would be pleased.'

'Master?' John asked nervously. Sherlock barked a laugh.

'I serve the one who lives here. He has been seeking for a companion for quite some time. Someone to assist him in his work. If I were to procure him such an assistant, I daresay he would overlook your destruction of his most precious possession.'

Sherlock narrowed his pale eyes at John. 'And since you offer your own life...'

'What the hell are you suggesting? Are you offering him a _job_?' Greg asked incredulously, still sprawled on the couch. Sherlock snarled at him, and he fell silent.

'In a manner of speaking. John, isn't it?' he asked, turning back to the man he still held in his cruel grip. 'What is your full name?'

'John Watson. Doctor John Hamish Watson,' John answered. Sherlock studied his face yet again, watching the play of emotions across it. Fear, hope, anger. The man's very soul could probably be read through his face, Sherlock could deduce even in their brief acquaintance that he must be a terrible liar. So much the better.

'Then, Doctor John Hamish Watson, I have a proposition for you,' he rumbled, almost caressingly. 'If you agree to remain here, and act as companion and assistant to my master, your friends can go free and unharmed. I'll even throw in _that _moron –' with a gesture towards the still-unconscious Anderson '– as an act of goodwill.'

'Stay? For how long?' John asked warily. Sherlock bared his teeth – an expression that couldn't truly be termed a smile. He ran through a timeframe in his mind, calculating how long various research and experiments would take, but the end result was impossible to predict with any degree of certainty. There were too many unknown variables in the equation, most notably the man standing in front of him. So he went for the safest option.

'Forever.'

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Yes, Anderson's a total idiot, but then we all knew that, didn't we? More soon, please keep reading and favouriting!


	5. Chapter 5

Hi there! Thanks to my first reviewers, it's very much appreciated!

**Disclaimer: **Not mine, never will be. There's no point in suing as all you'll get is a room full of books and a very grumpy cat.

**Warning: **Sherlock is definitely Not Nice in this chapter! There's some violence too, just so you know. Here we go...

* * *

_Forever._

The word rang like a knell in John's mind, which was struggling to keep up with all that had happened since he awakened at the sound of the door being opened, and been confronted with another of the grotesque creatures that had attacked them. Said monster was watching him keenly, waiting for a response. John hesitated however, as his very being seemed to cry out _no! _No, how could he possibly agree? Stay locked up here always with this monster, and the as-yet-unknown master of the mansion, who might be even more terrifying than his servant?

But if it would save Lestrade and Molly...

John thrust the thought aside ruthlessly. There had to be a way out or a compromise that could be reached. 'Are you sure you want to do this?' he asked cautiously. 'Supposing your master doesn't like me, or want my help. Are you sure you want to act on his behalf?'

The monster, so similar in appearance to the one that had hunted them – save the eyes – barked another horrible laugh. 'Oh, you needn't worry about that. I am authorised to speak for him. And I know him well. You will be perfectly suited to his requirements.'

That didn't bode well, in John's opinion, but he kept it to himself as he tried desperately to come up with a counter-argument and failed utterly. He was saved from his mental blank by Lestrade, God bless the man.

'John, don't even bloody think about it!' Lestrade commanded, getting back to his feet and glaring at the monster defiantly. 'There won't be any devil's bargains today, thank you very much. You want our lives, do you? Well, take them all. But I'm not buying my life with that of my friend's, thank you very much.'

'Nor me!' Molly announced, her brave words belied by the tears running down her cheeks, but her voice was firm.

John could have joined Molly in weeping, he was so moved, but the monster was unimpressed. 'Oh, how noble,' it drawled sarcastically. 'I'll have to use other methods of persuasion, then.' It let go of John's arm and with a single fluid motion seized Lestrade by the throat and started squeezing.

'No!' John cried, moving forward – but he instinctively halted himself as the creature turned its piercing gaze back on him.

'Bold words, considering what idiots you must be' it rumbled coldly. 'But are you really prepared to let your friends die, John, when a word from you will save them, let them go free to live out their lives? If it helps your decision, if you remain here, you will be perfectly safe. Nothing in this house or its grounds will harm you, myself included. You will be treated well and provided with every comfort.'

It shook Lestrade like a rag doll. The man clutched at the claw gripping his neck, and John saw to his horror that Lestrade was already turning blue with asphyxia. There were only seconds before he would fall unconscious, not many more before he choked to death.

'Or else,' the monster drawled, 'I shall exterminate you, one by one. I shall stretch my creativity to the utmost in concocting your deaths. And you I shall save for last, John. To allow you to die knowing you could have saved your friends and did not, because your courage failed you.'

'John, don't listen!' Molly pleaded, even as her hands flew to her face in horror. Lestrade was past speech, but he managed a jerky nod of assent as he tried in vain to loosen the monster's grip.

The monster turned its gaze once more upon John, and even in the midst of his turmoil John was struck by the pale blue gaze – like blue topaz, the early morning sky, or an iceberg, so different from the yellow fury that had blazed in the face of the creature that had confronted them last night.

'Well, John?' It asked him.

John thought, absurdly, that now he knew how Persephone must have felt, watching the world recede as Hades carried her down to the Underworld to be imprisoned for all eternity. At least the monster wasn't intending to present him as bride to his mysterious master.

John looked at Lestrade, whose struggles were becoming very feeble, and at Molly, trying so hard to be brave that it broke his heart. He knew he was caught, as surely as if the monster had dragged him down to some dank dungeon and chained him by his neck to the wall.

'You'll send them all home, free and unharmed, no retribution?' he asked steadily. 'I have your word?'

The creature's eyes gleamed in triumph. 'I promise.'

John nodded. 'Then I'll stay,' he said, amazed at how strong and bold his voice sounded, even as his innards seemed to cave in and hollow out his stomach in fear. The monster nodded approvingly.

'Now _you _promise _me _– on behalf of my master. Promise to stay forever, or until he releases you. No escape attempts, no trying to contact the outside world. I want your word of honour.'

John wondered in passing what such a monster, or its owner, would know of honour. He would find out, he supposed.

'I promise,' he answered, and immediately the monster released Lestrade, who fell to his knees, gasping and choking. Molly ran over to him, and helped him to his feet. The monster paid them no heed, striding over to the living room door. It shut the door and placed one clawed hand upon it, muttering to itself.

John went over to Lestrade and checked his throat – bruised but otherwise Lestrade seemed to have escaped serious injury. 'Keep your head held up, and try to breathe slowly,' he instructed – there was little else he could do without medical supplies. Lestrade could be treated once he was safely home. John wondered if helping Greg would be the last time he would ever make use of his medical knowledge.

_Don't think about it, _he instructed himself. If he did, he would fall down flat in despair and howl louder than those beasts in the woods.

'Right,' the monster announced abruptly, breaking into his bleak thoughts. 'John, wait there. You two, come over here.' He stalked over to the fireplace, seized the unfortunate Anderson by the scruff of his neck and dragged him unceremoniously over to the door. He placed his claw on the handle and swung the door open.

John's jaw actually dropped. He found it an interesting sensation.

The passageway leading back the hall had vanished. Through the door frame, he could see a grass, pavement, a road, the pearly light of early morning. The monster gestured at Lestrade and Molly, motioning them to come forward. With a glance at John, who nodded encouragement, they went forward slowly.

'What is this?' Lestrade rasped painfully. The monster rolled its pale eyes, a gesture so human that John was quite startled by it.

'Your route back to the outside world. Go through and you'll find yourselves at the edges of the wood you so carelessly lost yourselves in. And don't bother searching for this mansion in order to mount some pathetic rescue mission, the odds of your finding it again are infinitesimal.'

The monster lifted Anderson and threw him bodily through the door. He landed heavily on the pavement, John saw with unwilling fascination. The door had become a portal to somewhere on the edge of the woods, and he wondered how it was done. Was it related to physics, control over space and time?

Was it magic?

The monster gestured again at Lestrade and Molly, with mounting impatience. But Lestrade shook his head.

'I won't. Not without John,' he said, his abused throat making his voice scratchy.

'Impossible,' the monster snapped. 'We've made a deal and I expect him to stick to it. Your lives for his remaining here. Rest assured he won't be harmed.'

'You expect me to believe that?' Lestrade wheezed.

'I don't care what you believe,' the monster growled. 'Just go, before I change my mind.'

'Greg, it's okay,' John said, trying for reassurance. 'Go home. I'll be fine.'

Lestrade took a deep breath, and scrutinised the monster for a moment. He looked at Molly, standing quivering next to him, and then finally, he looked John in the eye for a long instant. 'I _will _come and find you, John,' he said solemnly, and then he took Molly's arm, and they stepped through the door. John saw them standing on the other side, awestruck.

The monster smiled a feral smile. 'No, you won't,' it said scathingly, and shut the door on them.

* * *

The closing door sounded behind them, and Lestrade and Molly spun round, half-expecting to see a wooden door standing in the middle of the pavement. But of course, there was nothing. They were standing in the middle of nowhere, by a deserted road without a trace of the mansion they had been standing in only a few moments ago.

And there was only the three of them. John was nowhere to be seen.

Lestrade and Molly looked at one another incredulously, struggling to take in everything that had happened in less than twelve hours. Then something bleeped. Lestrade started, then realised it was his mobile. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out. _56 missed calls_, it told him. And his inbox was full. They were truly back in the real world.

Lestrade's hand went to his throat, felt how tender and painful it was. Nope, unhappily it hadn't been a dream.

'Inspector?' Molly asked tremulously. 'Did it really happen?'

'I'm afraid so, Molly,' he said hoarsely. 'Don't ask me how, I haven't a clue. But it did. We need to get a search of the woods organised and find John as soon as we can. And you and me need to come up with a good cover story for his disappearance.'

'A cover story?' Molly said uncomprehendingly.

'Molly, what else can we do? Tell everyone we found an enchanted house, a monster kidnapped John and then teleported us back to the real world?' Lestrade asked with just a shade of his usual sarcasm. He felt totally drained, his muscles as weak as wet tissue paper, his brain churned up like scrambled egg. But he couldn't rest, not until John was safe.

Molly stared for a moment, then her mouth firmed up and she nodded. 'A cover story,' she said musingly. 'I'll think of something. You can tell the police, I'll turn on the waterworks and distract them if they start picking holes.'

Lestrade gawped at her in unflattering astonishment. At that moment, Anderson groaned and lurched to a sitting position on the hard concrete pavement. He looked at their surroundings in bemusement, then spied Lestrade and opened his mouth to speak.

'Yes, it all happened Anderson,' Lestrade growled. 'And if you don't stay silent and do exactly as I tell you, I'm dragging you back into those bloody woods and feeding you to those creatures.' Anderson made a strange noise, reminiscent of a squirrel being strangled, and then collapsed again.

Lestrade glared at him contemptuously, and then turned back to Molly. 'Let's get moving,' he told her as he dialled 999. 'I'm not abandoning John to God knows what.'

* * *

Somewhere, as Lestrade and Molly made plans for their doctor's rescue John walked forward and opened the living room door, half-hoping to see his friends one last time. But the pavement, the trees, the grass, all had vanished, and he saw the passageway that led back to the hall once more.

This meant that Lestrade and Molly and Anderson were truly gone, and he was alone. Alone with...

He took a deep, careful breath, and turned to face the monster who was watching him intently. John felt as if his very soul was under scrutiny, his flesh flayed from his bones under that glacial stare. Yet he met the monster's eyes defiantly, until at long last the creature blinked, and looked away. It was only then that John realised that what made the monster's stare so unnerving was that its eyes were human – human eyes, in a beast's countenance.

But before he had quite come to terms with the realisation, the monster had stepped over the threshold of the room and turned to beckon him forward. 'Follow me,' it said, and, unwillingly, John did so, wondering what exactly what fate awaited him here, in a mansion with a beast that walked and spoke like a man, and a master who for all John knew, could have a man's face shielding the nature of a beast.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Yes, Anderson's still a twerp. Please keep following and reviewing!


	6. Chapter 6

Hi all! Thanks to all my lovely reviewers, as I've said before, it's very much appreciated.

**Disclaimer:** not mine, they belong to the BBC and SACD.

**Warnings:** some mild swearing. And Mrs Hudson in high dudgeon. Enjoy!

* * *

The monster led John out into the hall and up the huge, curving stairs. Their footsteps made barely any sound on the deep pile of the carpet, and John felt the silence weighing down on him like a suit of chainmail. He wanted to stop and to demand to know where they were going, but he didn't trust himself not to break down. He was damned if he would show any weakness in front of this creature. He was probably damned anyway, but still.

The mansion was just as grandly beautiful on the inside as it was outside, he noticed absently. The high windows that seemed to line the majority of the corridors illuminated beautifully carved plaster and stonework, paintings, antique furniture... though John failed to spot any mirrors. He considered how hideous the monster striding ahead of him was, and could understand the omission. He wondered if the mysterious master of the house was just as ugly.

Finally, after several twists and turns that John did his best to memorise, the monster halted outside a door at the end of a short passage. It placed a claw on the door handle and opened it clumsily.

John hesitated, but the creature motioned him impatiently. 'This will be your room,' it informed him. 'Wait here until my master sends for you. I'll have food brought up for you.'

Warily, John stepped over the threshold, the skin on his back prickling with nerves as he lost sight of the monster, which stayed lurking at the doorway. The room was probably on the smallish side for such a large building, but it was nearly the same size as John's little flat back in London, decorated in deep blues and with furniture made in dark brown wood, plainer than that found in the corridors but still evidently very well crafted. An old-fashioned roll-top desk, a fireplace, a couple of armchairs and footstools beside it, a wardrobe, a small round table, and a bookcase filled with leather-bound volumes and a four-poster bed, complete with heavy velvet curtains, furnished it and still left plenty of space. There were two floor-to-ceiling windows to let in light, and what John presumed was the door to another cupboard set in one of the plain white walls.

'Is it to your liking?' the monster enquired. John turned back to face it.

'Would you care if it wasn't?' he asked coldly. The monster grunted, a sound that could have expressed anything from indifference to amusement to anger, and turned to go.

'As I instructed, wait here until my master sends for you. That will be this evening, I suggest you rest in the meantime.'

John did not answer, turning his back on the creature defiantly, despite his fear. There was a pause, and then the door slammed shut behind him as the creature left.

The sound seemed to reverberate through John's very being, and he flinched as the import of what had just happened to him began to penetrate his bewildered mind. He was trapped here for the rest of his life, he had given his word and even if he broke it, powers he could not understand were at work here, and would exact retribution, he was certain. It was over, and he would never see his home or his sister or Molly or Lestrade or anyone he cared about ever again.

John managed to stagger as far as the bed before his legs gave way. He collapsed upon the soft covers, and did not move again for a long time.

* * *

'What the bloody hell were you _thinking, _Sherlock?' Mrs Hudson demanded irritably. She seldom spoke to Sherlock so roughly, but they were in the kitchen, which was Martha's undisputed territory, and besides, she was very annoyed with him.

Sherlock winced despite himself. When Mrs Hudson resorted to profanity, no matter how mild, someone was always for the high jump, and that someone was invariably him. Sighing, he tried to justify his actions – something he would have scorned to do to anyone else, but Mrs Hudson had earned the right to an explanation over the years.

'Well, what else could I do? There was a very small window of opportunity available to me and I had to make a decision based on what little data was available to me. The man has some courage, I found him less irritating than the others, he's a doctor so he must have half a brain if not a full one, and he offered himself. He was the logical choice.'

'That's not what I meant, you clot!' Mrs Hudson stated crossly. 'Of course we had to persuade one of them to stay. But _forcing _him! And by hurting one of his friends! Do you really think he'll feel friendly or helpful towards you now?'

'His feelings are immaterial,' Sherlock snapped. 'He's a means to an end. I have what I need to break the curse now, it is simply a matter of discovering how to utilise him. And that promise he made will keep him here, he's a man of his word.'

'More's the pity,' Mrs Hudson muttered. 'But Sherlock, you ought to be more careful. Remember the Power of Three – if you make him unhappy, you'll suffer in your turn.'

Sherlock ignored that. 'I'll take the risk.'

'Don't be foolish,' Mrs Hudson snapped, sounding uncharacteristically cold and disdainful. 'You may think yourself above such things, but you're not. Exercise some self-control for once and be kind to the poor man.'

A little unnerved by Mrs Hudson's comments, Sherlock attempted to change the subject. 'He and his friends destroyed my violin,' he said, in a quieter tone of voice. 'I thought my self-control was remarkable under the circumstances. But if I break the curse with his assistance I will forgive that unfortunate act.'

Mrs Hudson sighed. 'I am sorry about the violin, dear. I know what it meant to you – and to me.' Her voice trembled a little over the last few words, and Sherlock, atypically, wanted to reach out and comfort her. But he was still in his beast form, so he suppressed the impulse.

'I expect you to keep up the pretence, by the way,' he said gruffly, concealing his feelings. 'As far as John knows, when I'm like _this_ I'm a servant, a sentry, whatever you care to call me – I have no name. When I'm human, I'm the master of the house, the magician. He can't ever find out we're one and the same. He mustn't.'

Sherlock delivered that last proclamation with emphasis and fell silent. Irene Adler's callous words upon discovering his dual nature, her cries of _filthy beast_,seemed to echo in his animal's ears, and he shook his head irritably to dispel them.

'Are you sure, dear?' Mrs Hudson asked gently. 'Why not make a clean breast of things? Perhaps he'll be more understanding than the woman.'

Sherlock snarled. 'I'm a beast, not an imbecile!'

He went to the kitchen door and flung it open roughly. 'I've put John in the blue bedroom. See to his needs today, Mrs Hudson. I'll spend the day in my rooms and send for him in the evening.' He prowled off, and Mrs Hudson tutted at his retreating back, before getting to work on lunch. She wondered what food their guest-cum-prisoner preferred and, happily, fell to making a large variety of things. At the very least, she could exercise her culinary skills so long as the poor man was with them. Sherlock either ate raw meat or nothing at all depending on his mood, and Martha herself had never had a large appetite.

Humming, she decided that having a guest merited some baking, and went to fetch her mother's old recipe book.

* * *

John must have slept despite – or because of – his misery, because he was roused by a knock at the bedroom door. He sat up sharply, and realised that the unsteady light of early morning had given way to the brightness of midday, streaming in through his window. It must be a lovely day outside, he thought absently.

The knock came again, and John slid off the bed, slightly chagrined to realise he'd left his boots on, and went cautiously to the door. He wished he'd thought to lock it before collapsing. 'Who is it?' he called, wondering if substituting _what _for _who_ would be more accurate.

'It's Mrs Hudson, dear,' came a female voice – slightly muffled, but John was almost certain it was the one that he had heard – God, was it only last night? 'I'm the housekeeper here, I've just brought you some lunch.'

John hesitated, but the voice sounded warm and friendly, very unlike the monster's low rumbling growl. And he found he was eager to see what being the mysterious voice belonged to at last. So he screwed up his courage and opened the door.

Of all the things he expected to see, a covered tea tray apparently floating in mid-air was not among them.

'Aargh!' he yelled, stumbling backwards, colliding with a footstool and going sprawling across the ornate Persian rug that probably cost more than all the furniture he owned back in London.

'What the – ' came a voice somewhere above the tray. 'Oh, of course. I _am _sorry, dear. I tend to forget about my condition. I'm used to it being just me and Sherlock.'

The tea tray floated forward and deposited itself on the small table near the fireplace, as John stared, too stunned to move, which was rapidly becoming a familiar sensation. 'What _are_ you?' he asked in bewilderment.

'Oh, don't fret, I'm just as human as you,' came the voice merrily. 'I'm invisible, that's all.'

'Invisible?' John shoved himself to a sitting position and reached towards where the voice originated from, as he had done last night. But this time, he felt another hand take told of his, and jumped in surprise.

'Don't be frightened, dear,' came the voice, and the unseen hand pulled at him, trying to help him up off the carpet. John regained his feet, and, keeping hold of what felt like a hand, felt his way up what felt like a cloth-covered arm – elbow – shoulder. It was someone petite, and probably female, judging by the delicate fingers, and middle-aged, from the softness of the skin. He could feel her, hear her, but just not see her.

'You _are _there,' he murmured in astonishment. He heard a giggle in response.

'I am, dear. As real and human as you are,' and he felt a reassuring squeeze on his hand.

John couldn't help himself; he burst out laughing, unsure whether it was from relief or wonderment. 'This is amazing!' he managed to get out in-between guffaws.

'Oh, thank you!' came the voice, sounding pleased. 'That's very nice of you. The last guest we had called me an infernal nuisance. I used to come upon her doing things she shouldn't – I can't help but sneak up on people, you know.'

'I don't, but I can imagine,' John said politely, still choking back the befuddled desire to laugh. 'You said your name is Hudson?'

'Martha Hudson, at your service.' Another squeeze of his hand and she pulled away, but John knew roughly where she stood now, and carried on looking in that direction. 'And you're John Watson, I've heard all about you. And of course we met last night.'

'That certainly explains a few things,' John remarked dryly. There was a pause, and John could guess that there was some invisible hand-wringing going on.

'Well, I know it must have been confusing,' Mrs Hudson offered at last. 'But being invisible isn't really the sort of thing you can explain when you've just met someone. Some people find it quite embarrassing, not knowing where to look – literally. And then, people don't always hear me talking to them, you know.'

'What do you mean?' John asked, confused. 'I can hear you, clear a bell.'

'Well, _you _could hear me, dear. And so could that other man, the one called Greg. But didn't you notice your other two friends didn't seem to hear me at all? Not everyone _can _hear me. That makes you a bit special.'

John wasn't sure how he felt about being special. 'Have you always been invisible, if you don't mind me asking?' he enquired hesitantly.

'Oh, no,' Mrs Hudson answered – she had evidently moved back over to the tray, as the cover moved off it and plates and cutlery were clattering across it. 'Being invisible came on about five years ago, when all the other trouble started.'

John moved over to where he thought Mrs Hudson was standing, intrigued by her last statement – was he finally going to discover something of significance, something that would help him understand this place and its peculiar inhabitants?

'What trouble?' he asked carefully. He heard a long sigh.

'The magical kind,' Mrs Hudson answered. 'Very powerful, dangerous magic at that. I ended up invisible, and Sherlock – well, I'll let him explain that. I got off quite lightly, considering. Invisibility isn't so bad. I had trouble for the first few months – I'd try to go in one direction and my legs would take me in the other because I couldn't see what was going on. But I got the hang of it after a while.'

John missed most of her answer. He was too busy being dumbfounded by the word _magic _to pay much attention. The hidden mansion, its monster, those beasts in the wood, doors that could transport you miles away, the invisible housekeeper – all of them, caused by magic. _Perhaps, _just possibly, Mrs Hudson was kidding him and there was a rational explanation for all this, but after all he had been through during the past day and night, magic seemed, ironically, far more likely. John contemplated either fainting or going off into hysterics at the revelation, but decided he didn't have sufficient energy for either.

What he did do was sit down rather heavily in one of the armchairs next to the fireplace. Mrs Hudson saw her chance, and shoved a cup of sweet tea into one of his hands. 'Eat some lunch, dear,' she advised. 'It's only some biscuits and sandwiches for now, but you'll feel better. I'll run you a nice hot bath and find you something to wear for this evening.'

A small door in one wall that John had assumed was a cupboard opened a few moments later, and the sound of running water soon followed. The mansion must have indoor plumbing, magic or no magic. John was oddly grateful that something so practical was in existence here. It gave his brain, still preoccupied by the concept that Magic Is Real, one less thing to have to process.

He sipped at the tea, and as his thirst was quenched his appetite came back with a vengeance, reminding him he hadn't eaten properly in almost a full day and night. He was making good headway on the sandwiches when the wardrobe door creaked open. 'Oh, good, there's plenty that will fit you here,' came Mrs Hudson's voice. 'Get changed after your bath and I'll get your old things washed. Oh, and it is nice to cook for someone who appreciates good food,' she added, sounding pleased. 'Sherlock hardly eats a thing.'

John paused in his eating. 'Sherlock? That's the third time you've mentioned someone with that name.'

'Yes, he's the master of this place,' Mrs Hudson answered easily. 'There – there used to be more people living here, but now it's just the two of us.'

Her voice trailed off, and John could tell something had saddened her. He hesitated before asking more questions, but his curiosity about the master the creature had also spoken of overcame tact. 'What's he like?' he inquired.

'Difficult to describe,' Mrs Hudson answered wryly. 'I've known him since he was a child, so I probably don't see him as others do. He's very clever – a genius even. Devoted to his work, and he's not very sociable – he can be a bit rude at times, too, and thoughtless, but he's an amazing young man underneath it all. You'll see him for yourself this evening.'

Ah yes, that promised meeting, lurking in John's near future like a vulture ready to swoop on an animal as soon as it died. He shuddered at the thought. 'Do you know what he intends to do with me?' he asked quietly.

There was silence for a moment, and John strained his ears, trying to guess where Mrs Hudson had got to. He jumped a moment later, as she laid a hand on his arm.

'Please don't be frightened, dear,' Mrs Hudson advised him kindly. 'Sh – the _servant _told you the truth. Nothing here will hurt you, Sherlock included. I know it's hard, giving up your home and friends, but you were very brave, doing what you did. Be brave for a bit longer, and everything will turn out all right – it always does, in my experience.'

In John's own experience, despite hope and hard work and prayer, things often went straight to hell in a handbasket. But Mrs Hudson's efforts at comforting him went right to his heart, and he covered her unseen hand with his own workman's hand, trying to show his appreciation for them and her.

They remained like that for a minute before Mrs Hudson roused herself. 'Get yourself cleaned up, young man,' she instructed him. 'Spend a quiet afternoon here and you'll be fit for anything by evening. I'll come for you then.'

She apparently left him to his own devices, because the door to the bedroom opened and shut itself. John shook his head in quiet amazement. Invisible housekeepers – what other wonders did this house contain? He finished off the sandwiches and, looking at the dried mud on his jeans, decided to take Mrs Hudson's advice and get cleaned up. Whoever or whatever this Sherlock was, John didn't want to look like some waif in the wilderness when they met, however much he felt like one.

* * *

John didn't linger in the bathroom, despite the luxuries of a large bathtub (his flat only had a shower), fleecy towels and copious amounts of hot water. He scrubbed himself off quickly, dried himself off even more hastily, and went to get dressed. Mrs Hudson had hung up a sky-blue shirt and clean pair of jeans up on the wardrobe door for him, and he deferred to her fashion choices, even though the jeans were a bit long in the leg.

The incongruity of workaday jeans in an enchanted mansion made him pause for a minute, but he had never liked formal clothes and decided to be grateful for small mercies. His boots had mysteriously vanished, and, disliking the idea of going about in his socks, he was rummaging about in the wardrobe in search of shoes when his hand closed on what felt like trainers.

He pulled them out, wondering if he could stuff the toes if they were too big... And he smiled slightly in pleasant surprise as he realised that the trainers were exactly the same make and size as his favourite pair back home.

Wait a second... John turned them around in his hands in bewilderment. They _were _his trainers, right down to the scuff mark on the toe of the left shoe from when he'd tripped over the kerb one night. The too-short laces on the right shoe, the creases near where his toes flexed – he _knew _these shoes. How the hell had they gotten here?

He shivered, despite the lingering warmth of the bath water on his skin. There was too much here that he could not understand, and despite Mrs Hudson's admonition not to be frightened, he could not help the icy feeling that seemed to nestle in his stomach.

The day passed with excruciating slowness. John dared not leave the room and risk another encounter with the monster or the unknown Sherlock. He tried reading from one of the volumes on the bookshelves, but was unable to concentrate – he ended up looking at the watch Harry had given him a couple of birthdays ago every other minute.

Finally he tried opening one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and discovered that it led to a little balcony overlooking a grove of picturesque old oak trees. He spent most of the afternoon lingering out there, watching the sun sink towards the treetops of the wood beyond the walls that surrounded the mansion, thinking about Lestrade and Molly and his sister, hoping they would be all right, wondering at the difference between the monster in the mansion and those in woods, and worrying over his own fate like a cat with a herring bone.

It had turned dark and he had retreated to one of the armchairs by the fireplace by the time Mrs Hudson came for him. The fire had mysteriously lit itself, giving off both warmth and light, and John concluded that must be another magical aspect of this place.

Still, he was grateful when he heard the tap at his door – he wanted to get the first meeting with his captor over as quickly as possible. He exchanged a few pleasantries with Mrs Hudson, but she was evidently in a hurry too, and guided him through the mansion with a few hasty phrases, such 'left turn here,' and 'carry on until you reach the archway.' In short order he found himself back at the door to the sitting room where he had spent the previous night.

There was nothing to be gained by waiting, so John, with all the recklessness of acute fear, put out a hand and threw open the door.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Yes, Mrs Hudson didn't escape Moriarty's curse either :-( The reasons for this are explained more fully in later chapters. And I promise I'll post Sherlock and John's first (second?) meeting soon.


	7. Chapter 7

Hi all! Well, here it is, the first 'official' meeting between John and Sherlock. All tips on characterization in particular are welcome; thanks again to everyone who has taken the time to post a review. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **not mine, alas. Just playing.

* * *

The man standing before the fire was not what John had been expecting.

He wasn't overly sure what he had been expecting, but the man he presumed was Sherlock certainly wasn't it.

He was tall, thin, with black hair that curled over his head in abandon. In fact, everything about the man was monochrome – black hair, black clothes, high pale forehead and cheekbones, long slender sinewy hands, one resting on his hip, and the other gripping the edge of the mantelpiece. He had equally long pale feet – the master of the house evidently went barefoot, a fact that lodged itself in John's mind as significant, though he could not have said why.

He did not look at John as he entered, but continued staring into the flames. John stared at him, watching the flickering of orange light over his hair and tall frame. He was a striking looking man, whatever else he might be. John couldn't tear his eyes away.

'John Watson,' the master drawled, his voice deep and resonant, echoing round the small room like a waterfall leaping down to cascade into a churning pool. 'I've been looking forward to meeting you.'

'It isn't mutual,' John retorted, recovering himself. The master turned his gaze from the fire towards John for the first time at that, one eyebrow raised at the riposte.

'Now, now,' he admonished. 'No need for that. It's in everyone's best interest to remain civil.'

'Depends on your idea of "civil",' John muttered.

'I am as civilised as the next man,' the master retorted. 'Have you not been well-cared for today? Have I not promised your safety?'

'Yes, well, I've seen what you keep for a pet, and it nearly killed my friend,' John snapped angrily. 'And now I'm trapped here for life as a result. So you can understand my being sceptical, _Sherlock_, or master, or whatever your damn name is.'

The master's lips compressed into a thin line, and his thin face flushed slightly. 'He is no _pet_,' he said tightly, and John was gratified to realised he had provoked the man to anger. 'Call him my jailer, if you will, my guard and my servant. But I have no affection for him, nor he for me. The sooner he goes from here, the better.'

John blinked in surprise at that, and the master gestured at one of the chairs by the fire. 'Come and sit. Explanations are needed and it's impolite of you to keep lurking in the doorway.'

John thought about offering another snide comment, but his curiosity was piqued. He came forward slowly and sat in the armchair indicated – the same one he had slept in last night, he realised. The door did not shut behind him, so he presumed Mrs Hudson had left them to it. Sherlock stood over him, merely looking for a few moments, but John nevertheless had a feeling of déjà vu, akin to the one he had experienced this morning – as though his very soul was being scrutinised.

John looked up at the master, and was struck by the icy-blue colour of his eyes. It was so familiar... But a second later the man turned away, and sat down in the chair opposite.

'My name is Sherlock Holmes,' the master announced without preamble. 'This is my family home. I'm one of the last in a long line of sorcerers, magicians, magic-handlers, whatever you care to call them. My own particular speciality is curse-breaking.'

'What does that involve?' John queried. Sherlock glared at him, irritated to have been interrupted, but John glared right back.

'It involves pulling rabbits out of top hats. What do you think it involves? And I'm being sarcastic,' Sherlock snapped, an expression on his face that said _why must I lower myself to converse with an idiot?_

'Really? I never would have guessed,' replied John with a roll of the eyes and equal shades of sarcasm in his voice. 'Have pity, this is all very new to me. I'm still trying to get my head round the idea that magic actually exists.'

'Of course it exists,' Sherlock answered, annoyance melting away and leaving him sounding faintly surprised. 'It's in everything, everyone, holds the very fabric of the universe together. Almost everyone has some degree of magical ability – though it's like with music, some people have greater ability than others. And like any talent, it must be practiced and refined, brought under control, or else the ability will be lost altogether. That's why the majority of the world's population have no concept of magic whatsoever – they have never learned about it, never learned to use it. That can only be a good thing, as there would be the most appalling chaos otherwise.'

'Oh,' John leaned back in his chair, finally feeling that he was getting somewhere. 'But you said your family have always been aware of it?'

'Yes, I did – is your hearing defective?' Sherlock replied, sounding genuinely puzzled.

'I'm beginning to wish it were,' John sighed. 'Carry on then.'

Sherlock's expression reverted back to irritated. 'Provided you don't interrupt again.'

'No more promises.'

There was a longish silence. Sherlock looked at John for a lingering moment, and once again John was struck by the familiarity of his expression. Just as he began to wonder where he had seen the man before, Sherlock resumed his exposition.

'As I said, my speciality is curse-breaking. Nearly every curse ever cast has a method of undoing – an escape clause, as it were. It could be something as simple as paying a debt owed, to something rather more complex, such as doing a ritual, performing a number of tasks in a certain order and so forth. My work involved investigating curses and deducing the means by which they could be lifted.'

'Sounds like the magical equivalent of being a private detective,' John quipped, intrigued despite himself. And was surprised, but pleasantly so, to garner a quick smile off Sherlock.

'That's precisely what it is. I have often thought that had I not been born into a magic-handling family, I would have pursued a career in such an occupation. I have talent in this area – for example, I know that in addition to being a doctor, you were a soldier who was injured in the left shoulder and invalided out of the army, are currently single and unattached and have a brother whom you disapprove of.'

John's jaw dropped for the second time that day. 'How did –' he started, wondering if psychic talent was a part of Sherlock's magic.

'Simplicity itself, John. Soldier from the military posture of your back and shoulders – you hold yourself very straight, which is indicative of either combat training or possibly dancing. You don't look like a dancer however – your build is too stocky for dancing – so it is either martial arts training or an army career. Moreover, your left shoulder is hunched slightly higher than the right one, suggesting it's painful. Combined with my previous deduction, it suggests an injury suffered in combat, hence army career, and any wound to the shoulder that causes prolonged pain must have been serious, hence being invalided out. Also, you have never been married – no ring and no marks that indicate you ever wore one – and are most likely single judging by those well-worn shoes. A man who lives in his trainers either works at a manual job, which you do not, is too poor to afford smart shoes, again not you, or – mostly likely – has no reason to dress up, suggesting you do not socialise very much beyond drinks at the pub.'

'And my brother?' John asked, eager despite himself and his resentment towards the man sitting opposite him. Sherlock smirked.

'Your watch has an inscription running around the side of the case – I can see the words _from Harry _inscribed on it. Such an expensive present would have to come from either a lover or a family member and for an unmarried, single man to wear such a thing suggests it came from a close relative rather than a lover you might wish to forget, most likely a brother. The watch itself is very scratched and dented, the strap frayed, suggesting it is not a highly valued possession, ergo you do not hold your brother in high esteem. I sympathise, I also suffer from having an irritating sibling.'

John managed to close his jaw, but it was an effort. Despite his fear and confusion, despite the crazy situation which he was currently in, and despite the peril possibly posed by the man holding him captive, he found himself thrilled by Sherlock's deductions and how they were made. 'That's amazing,' he uttered flatly.

For the second time in their short acquaintance, Sherlock wore an expression of slight astonishment. 'Really?' he asked, voice conveying his surprise at John's words. 'That's not the usual reaction.'

'What is?' John enquired.

Sherlock snorted indelicately. '"Piss off" was the standard response.'

John grinned. 'Trust me to be problematic.'

'Oh, you were no trouble to read, John, I know even on such short acquaintance you are a terrible liar,' Sherlock informed him pompously. 'And all my deductions were right, were they not?'

John nodded. 'Except that Harry is short for Harriet.'

The look of dismay on Sherlock's face was so absurdly tragic John couldn't help chuckling.

'There's _always _something! Something I can't see or deduce!' Sherlock uttered, dejected, flinging himself back in his seat and slumping down until he was almost lying in the chair. John regarded him with amusement – from charismatic conjurer to petulant child in less than a minute.

'Let's get back to business,' he suggested. 'Curse-breaking is akin to detective work?'

'Yes, very much so,' Sherlock answered sullenly, still sulking. 'Curses range from the mildly annoying to the utterly diabolical, but it is very rare that one is Unbreakable.'

'Why is that?' John asked. Sherlock forgot his sulk and sat upright in his chair.

'Because permanence is against all laws of nature and magic – everything changes, is constantly in motion. People die and are born, the seasons come and go, the weather is never the same. An Unbreakable curse is a violation of nature itself, and they are very difficult spells to cast – it's easy for them to go wrong or rebound upon the sender, so most magicians, even those who practice dark arts, never risk them. Plus with them being unnatural, a heavy price is always paid by the one who casts an Unbreakable curse.'

John listened in fascination. 'What sort of price?' he enquired.

Sherlock glanced searchingly at him before answering. 'I have come across only one verified account of an Unbreakable curse during my research – a woman wished to curse the family of a man who jilted her. She summoned a demon in order to gain sufficient power, and the demon demanded her heart and soul as payment.'

'Demons?' John sputtered.

This time, Sherlock's smile held none of its former warmth and curved his mouth cruelly. 'Demons and other abominations exist, John, get used to it. But rest assured neither I nor Mrs Hudson have any truck with them.'

'Good to know,' John remarked dryly, with a calmness he was far from feeling. 'So did this woman give her heart and soul?'

'She did. As to what happened afterwards, the records were uncertain, but the curse was cast, and its effects were apparently terrible. The family suffering from the curse died out a few generations later and escaped it that way, but as to what become of the witch, no one ever gained any precise knowledge as to facts.'

'Gosh,' John murmured.

Sherlock made an impatient gesture. 'But that's irrelevant. Stop turning me away from the subject at hand, which is that in my entire illustrious career I have only ever encountered one curse I have been unable to break, and that is the one that lies over my home, Mrs Hudson and myself.'

John nodded. 'Mrs Hudson mentioned some trouble that started five years ago when I met her earlier.'

There was another huff from Sherlock, this one a curious mix of indignation and sadness. '"Trouble" is an understatement of the first water,' he said, pale eyes staring into the fire, unseeing. 'I suppose you had better know the full story. Eight years ago, during the course of my work, I encountered a magician named James Moriarty. He was an adept of the black arts, and an unreconstructed psychopath into the bargain.'

Sherlock turned his eyes from the fire back to John, in order to gauge his reaction. 'He had virtually no natural magical ability, but had acquired it through various means – collecting magical artefacts, deals with demons and so forth. Nonetheless, he was an immensely skilled practitioner when it came to curses. It soon became a point of professional pride between us as to how many curses of his I was able to break. He became my best enemy, if you like.'

John regarded Sherlock coolly, irritated by the admiration that had crept into Sherlock's voice as he spoke of what sounded like a very evil man. 'I'm guessing he got the better of you somewhere down the line,' he said flatly.

Sherlock's glare this time would have felled a lesser man, but John was tough. He returned the glare steadily until Sherlock turned back to stare into the fire.

'Five years ago,' Sherlock continued roughly, 'I broke a curse he had laid upon an entire village in South America, a nasty one that dictated that every pregnant woman would die in childbirth. It was one of my greatest victories – it took me weeks of research and I drained myself to the dregs to remove it. Moriarty had taken my successes in good humour prior to that, but the breaking of that curse soured the game for him. He, like the witch I told you about, had paid a very high price for the power to cast that curse.'

John's amazement had gradually given way to horror during Sherlock's calm recital of events. 'He deserves to lose his soul if that's what he does for kicks!' he exclaimed. Sherlock turned from the fire and regarded him dispassionately.

'It wasn't his soul he traded in. But regardless, I spoiled his fun. And I may have gloated a little afterwards. So he used some residual power from that deal to curse me and my home and all who lived here – namely, Mrs Hudson. Fortunately my elder brother was from home at the time or he would have been caught up in it too.'

Sherlock heaved a heavy sigh. 'And for the past five years I have been trapped here. Unable to leave, unable to go anywhere, unable to resume my work – the servant you met sees to that. Those beasts in the wood are Moriarty's spies – they prevent my leaving via that route. And I cannot escape in the way my servant used to send your friends home this morning, the curse prevents it. Nor do I have any method of contacting the outside world – the spell placed on this mansion means it is almost impossible to find, even for a magician as skilled as my brother, who otherwise would have come to my aid. Your appearance here is little short of a miracle.'

John crossed his arms in anger. 'That's not the term I'd use.'

Sherlock shrugged. 'Whatever. But you are here, and you're exactly what I need to break the curse.'

John forgot his anger and sagged back in his chair. 'I knew it. I'm going to get sacrificed on a high altar somewhere,' he groaned, not entirely jokingly. Sherlock stared at him in annoyance.

'Don't be even more of an idiot than you usually are. I don't practice blood sacrifices,' he grumbled. 'But I do need someone's assistance – yours. The only clue I have as to how to break the curse is that it involves another human in some capacity. _The answer lies in the eyes of another_, was what Moriarty offered. Not literally, he's not that helpful. But now you are here, my work can resume.'

John listened, turning over Sherlock's assertions in his mind. He was still bemused by all that had happened to him and all he had learned so fast, but his brain was no longer rendered useless by fear or bewilderment. 'How can _I _help?' he asked softly. 'I don't know anything about magic, or curses, or anything you've mentioned. Besides, couldn't you just work with Mrs Hudson if all you need is another person to break this... curse?'

Sherlock waved an elegant hand, dismissing John's concerns. 'I've tried it with Mrs Hudson – every experiment failed dismally, it's tricky since invisibility cancels out a lot of magicks involving the eyes and perception. And don't worry about lack of magical knowledge, you can learn, with any luck. Besides, your role will be as my assistant – I will conduct the experiments, you need only do as I instruct you.'

'Fine,' John said shortly. 'But before all that, I have something important to ask.'

Sherlock nodded languidly, unconcerned by John's objections. 'Ask away.'

'Why did you break the curse on the village?' John asked bluntly. 'Was it to help those poor women, or was it just to score points off Moriarty?'

Sherlock gaped at him. But only for an instant, he recovered swiftly and his face fell back into its usual hauteur. 'What has that to do with anything?' he asked, sounding genuinely bemused, despite his newly impassive expression.

'Everything,' John answered firmly. Sherlock's expression didn't alter, but John could almost _feel _his confusion deepening. He stayed silent, waiting for Sherlock's answer, though from the man's reaction he could guess what it would be.

'It was a part of the game,' Sherlock answered finally. 'To challenge one another, to try and best one another – the curse on the village was a part of that. I broke it to thwart Moriarty and his black magic, to prove he was not the strongest.'

'And the people in the village?' John asked, oh so softly, but there was a note in his voice that rang like the clash of swords. 'Didn't you care about them?'

'Why would I?' Sherlock asked, voice rising in annoyance. 'Would my caring about them help them? Or help me to break the curse any quicker, or make me stronger when facing my adversary? No, it would be entirely beside the point. I am not a hero, John. My only interest lies in my work and the intellectual stimulation it offers. I have been bored to death these past five years and now I have a chance to escape I do not intend to waste it. I intend to break the curse and then resume my battle with my enemy forthwith – assuming he is still alive, that is.' He smiled grimly. 'And should the chance present itself, I intend to win our little war, come what may.'

John had listened in utter stillness to Sherlock's tirade, a stillness that would have struck Sherlock as ominous had he paused to analyse it. But he was lost in delicious anticipation of that far-off day when he would finally defeat his notorious adversary, and the look he bestowed upon John was arrogant rather than thoughtful.

And then John got to his feet.

'Then I won't help you,' he said in the same soft voice, and turned around and went through the door, heading back to his room, leaving Sherlock sitting alone by the fire.

* * *

**Author's notes: **what can I say, my version of John is a very stubborn, principled man. More about this in the next chapter! And since it is Remembrance Sunday in the UK, this chapter is for our all soldiers and their families. We will remember them.


	8. Chapter 8

I'm back! Anyone miss me? No? Rats. Anyway, on with the story. Thanks again to all my lovely reviewers, please keep reading and favouriting.

**Disclaimer****: **I have no rights whatsoever to any of these characters, they belong to people much cleverer than me.

**Warning: **John in a temper. I'll let you decide for yourselves if it's scary or sexy ;-)

* * *

Sherlock's expression, had he but known it as he watched John stalk angrily down the passageway to the hall, was every adjective in the dictionary. Stunned, flabbergasted, pole-axed, confounded, bewildered and definitely surprised, all played across the suddenly expressive face. What the hell had just happened?

He jumped to his feet and ran after John, catching up with him just as he entered the main hall. Sherlock flicked a hand, and the candles all lit themselves to shed some light on the scene playing itself out. John paused at that, looking at the gleaming flames in amazement, and Sherlock took advantage of his preoccupation to place himself between John and the staircase.

'You _will _help me,' Sherlock informed him angrily. 'That was the deal. Your service in exchange for the lives of your friends, my servant told me everything.'

John shrugged nonchalantly. 'Then he told you wrong. The promise he extracted was that I would stay here forever. Which I will do, but if you think I'm going to be party to unleashing you back on the world, you're very much mistaken.'

Sherlock realised in dismay that this morning that John hadn't actually promised to serve him, only to remain in the mansion – it was quite clever of him to remember, and he felt a surge of grudging approval for the unassuming man regarding him steadily. But anger swiftly reared its head once more.

'Why not?' he demanded. 'Because I wasn't weeping for some people I never met and cared nothing for? Sentimentality isn't my strong suit, John, it never has been. It is of no value in my work and can be a distinct handicap when it comes to curse-breaking – a clear and impartial view is vital.'

John sighed wearily. 'I don't care about you not being sentimental. And I accept that you didn't care anything for that village and its people personally – I'm a doctor, I know that getting too involved with patients can be very risky.'

Then his gaze hardened, and Sherlock felt a slight frisson in the air, as the amiable if spirited man he had been conversing with vanished and left the soldier in his place. He had the distinct impression of being assessed and found wanting, and scowled in irritation.

'But women probably died in that village,' John said softly, but this time Sherlock recognised the steel in his tone. 'Families lost loved ones, children will have to grow up without their mothers. All because of some bloody _game _you were playing with another man. You want to challenge one another, fine, but when you start playing with peoples' lives in doing so – I think it's a very good thing you're trapped here. There's no one for you to hurt and no lives for you to destroy with your childish entertainments, except mine if you want.'

He stepped around Sherlock, who for the life of him could not muster any response or defence to John's words – a wholly new and unsettling experience.

'And I don't much care what you do with me, now,' John informed him as he made his way up the stairs. 'My life is over, I'll never see my home or my family or friends again, I'll never be able to be a doctor again. Kill me, hurt me, ignore me, turn me into a frog – I'm past caring.'

And John strode up the stairs, presumably going back to his room, Sherlock's icy eyes following him the whole way, until he passed out of sight. Even then, Sherlock found it hard to tear his eyes away from where he had last seen John. He felt as he had once felt aged eight, when he had walked out on the frozen pond in the grounds and the ice had given way. The shock, the atrocious cold, the slushy water had all conspired to grip his body in an indestructible hold. Now, years later, he felt a similar sensation – of disbelief, of bewilderment, the swellings of indignation and, yes, admiration, conspiring to hold him stock still.

He was roused from that state by Mrs Hudson coming to stand next to him – she had no doubt been listening in from some discreet location. 'Oh, my. That didn't go very well at all, did it?' she commented.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'As ever, Mrs Hudson, your talent for stating the glaringly obvious is unparalleled.'

'No need to be rude, dear,' she said reproachfully. 'I suppose – wait, where are you going?'

Sherlock had started up the stairs. 'To try and get him to see reason, gods help me. I would have to choose some illogical, romantic idealist to try and break the curse.'

He was halted by Mrs Hudson's hand on his arm. 'Please don't, Sherlock,' she advised. 'Not tonight – he's too angry with you. Give him a day to cool off and try again tomorrow when you're both thinking straight. Or better yet, let me speak to him about it. One day more won't make much difference in the grand scheme of things.'

Sherlock's frown was touched with impatience, but he saw the sense in Mrs Hudson's words. 'I wasn't expecting him to be so _stubborn,_' he grumbled.

'Try and be patient, Sherlock,' Mrs Hudson said softly. 'He's lost his home and his freedom, everything he cares about. But he isn't hard or unfair – I'm sure of that.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. 'You love him already,' he sniped.

'I do, my dear, just as I love you, and goodness knows you give me little enough reason to,' she returned snippily. Sherlock smiled despite his anger, and reached to put his arm around her shoulders.

'My stalwart Mrs Hudson,' he remarked. 'A pity Moriarty didn't take you on instead of me, then we wouldn't be in this mess.'

He squeezed her shoulders one last time and stalked off to his room, shedding his human form as he went. Time enough for being human tomorrow, when he would face the obstinate, idealistic John Watson once more. He would be lying if he said he wasn't rather looking forward to the challenge.

* * *

John found his room with ease and stormed in, slamming the door shut in a temper. He wasn't quite sure _why _he was so enraged – what had he expected? That the man who lived here would be more principled than the monster who had blackmailed him into staying in the mansion? That he might have been someone John could have regarded as a friend, in spite of everything that had happened?

Sherlock was a fascinating man, John could tell that even on short acquaintance, and he would have enjoyed getting to know him under any other circumstances. Pity the man was a total bastard.

John flung himself down in one of the chairs by the fireplace, intending to have a good sulk, but only ten minutes later came an already recognisable tap at the door. 'Come in, Mrs Hudson,' he called – her company was preferable to only having his grim and furious thoughts for company.

The door opened, and this time John got up to take the covered tray from her hands. 'You shouldn't have,' he said, a little despondently. 'I'm sorry, but I don't think I could manage anything at the moment.'

'It's a cold supper, it'll keep,' she assured him as John deposited the tray on the table. 'You and Sherlock had a little domestic, didn't you?'

John snorted inelegantly. 'That's putting it mildly. How on earth have you put up with him for so long?'

'As I said, I've been here since he was a child,' came Mrs Hudson's voice from the other side of the room, and John realised that she was turning down the covers on the bed and plumping up the pillows. 'I see a side of him few people ever see. Besides, you two didn't meet under the best of circumstances. Give him a chance, dear. As I said, he can be thoughtless, but he's not a bad man underneath it all.'

John heaved yet another heavy sigh. 'I disagree. He told me about his rivalry with this Moriarty person – people got hurt because they wanted to outdo one another, and he doesn't seem bothered by any of that. If this curse means that the rivalry is over, that can only be a good thing. I won't help undo it.'

There was silence for a long, long time, and John began wondering if Mrs Hudson had left the room. But then he heard her tread near the fireplace.

'Please, sit with me a moment, John,' he heard her ask gently. He did so.

'I love Sherlock,' she began as soon as he was seated. 'His mother and his Aunt Cerridwen Holmes were my dearest friends, and after they died I helped raise him. It wasn't an easy childhood, alone here with only me and his brother – Mycroft that is. There were seven years between them so they were never terribly close. His father – dreadful man – had fallen out with most of the other prominent magical families in the country before he vanished, so Sherlock had no friends among them. Even as a child, he was a powerful magician, and he couldn't always control it, so things like school or going to Scouts weren't possible. If one of my magic-handling friends hadn't been a musician, he would never even have learned to play the violin. It was a lonely life, and of course he resented it. He resented us too, Mycroft more than me. Mycroft was growing up too, and of course he made mistakes with his brother.'

John, unwillingly, found he could visualise the lonely child, alone in this grand mansion, with no other children to play with, no mother or father, only a brother and Mrs Hudson, who, though kind and loving, could not replace those he had lost.

'When Sherlock was eighteen, his magical control was good enough that he could attend university, but it wasn't a success. He didn't understand the other students, and they couldn't understand him. He only had one friend the whole time he was there – a nice young magician, named Victor Trevor, had animal magic. That was how Sherlock was turned on to curse-breaking – someone cursed Victor's father, and Sherlock broke it for them. But they left the country after that, and as far as I know Sherlock never saw them again.'

'Why are you telling me this?' John asked, though he could guess why.

'To let you know Sherlock has been alone for most of his life,' Mrs Hudson replied, her voice trembling a little. 'He doesn't comprehend the value of things like friendship because he has so little experience of it. You may think him cold and cruel, but he's nothing like that evil man Moriarty. I know there's a good man in there.'

John did not respond, unsure of what to say. Mrs Hudson appeared to take his silence for encouragement, however.

'Please dear, give him a chance. Help him break this curse. And Sherlock is not without a sense of justice – I'm sure he'll give you your freedom if you break the spell.'

John perked up a little at that. It was true – what reason would Sherlock have to keep him here, if he himself were free?

'And I would so like to be visible again, dear,' Mrs Hudson said wistfully. 'I can cope with invisibility, but I miss people being able to see me. And I haven't had a decent haircut in years – I can never see what I'm cutting. I probably look like a hedgehog.'

John chuckled at that, knowing that he was in danger of giving in. Mrs Hudson's gentle plea had done what no amount of Sherlock's arrogance and scintillating intellect could accomplish. But his conscience still troubled him.

'I don't know, Mrs Hudson,' he mused out loud. 'You've known him far longer than I have. But I don't want to help if he doesn't care about the world or the people in it – what would be the point? He might as well stay here. Besides, if he doesn't care about anything what's to prevent him turning away from curse-breaking and to those dark arts he told me about?'

'But he does care, dear,' Mrs Hudson told him, a shade of reproach creeping into her voice. 'About me, and about his brother, though he'd never admit it. And as I said, he has a sense of justice. I'm sure he'd never become as evil as Moriarty, no matter what the circumstances. He's already a great magician – with a little guidance, I think he might even become a good man as well.'

John recognised the challenge being thrown down to him. And it wasn't as if he had anything else to occupy his time here. 'Fine. I'll try and work with him,' he told her. 'But for your sake, not for his. I still think he's a prat at the very least, no matter how brilliant he is. And if I think he's in danger of going too far with something, or if he's going to hurt someone – well, then, forget me helping.'

'Oh good!' came the pleased exclamation. 'That's a weight off my mind. I'll leave you to your supper, young man – try and have an early night. Sherlock will probably want to see you again tomorrow evening.'

'What should I do until he wants to chat?' John asked her.

'Anything you like, go where you want – this is your home now. But don't set foot outside the grounds, dear. There are spells in place around this house to defend it, but once you're in the woods you're at the mercy of those monsters.'

'And what about the – the servant?' John asked, still a trifle nervously. He couldn't forget that the creature had wanted to kill him and probably Lestrade and Molly. Definitely that twerp Anderson.

'Oh, don't worry about _him_,' came Mrs Hudson's voice, now over near the door. 'He's under strict instructions to leave you in peace. You won't see him, and he won't bother you. Try and forget him as much as you can.'

'Easier said than done,' John muttered, more to himself than Mrs Hudson.

'I'll say good night now,' Mrs Hudson carried on. 'Sleep well, dear. I'll come and see you in the morning.'

'Good night, Mrs Hudson,' John answered, and a second later he heard the door click shut. He got up, locked it with the old-fashioned metal key in the lock, and went to the bathroom to wash and get ready for bed, deciding not to bother with supper. A quick rummage in the wardrobe turned up a t-shirt and soft pyjama trousers, and soon he was changed and climbing in-between smooth sheets.

John had expected to lie awake for hours, going over events in his mind, but within minutes he was dozing, and soon he was deeply asleep, unaware as the curtains drew themselves shut and the fire burnt lower in the grate, keeping the room warm but not casting enough light to disturb him.

He dreamed, and in his dream Sherlock was smiling at him, mischievous and inviting. And John's heart turned somersaults to see it.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **I chose the name Violet for Sherlock's mother as there is a 'certain belief' amongst Sherlockians that this is Holmes's mother's name, given Conan Doyle's fondness for the appellation. After all, there are four different Violets in the original canon of Holmes stories, in 'The Adventure of the Copper Beeches', 'The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist', 'The Adventure of the Illustrious Client' and 'The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans'. However, as Sabine Baring-Gould notes, Violet was a very common name in Britain when Conan Doyle was writing. (Source: The Baker Street Wikia, wiki/Holmesian_Speculation, and The Norwood Builder, post/51087668776/a-bunch-of-violets). Cerridwen Holmes has no basis in any Holmesian Speculation, I just made her up. More on both these ladies later in the story.


	9. Chapter 9

Hi all! A nice long chapter today, because I'm in a state of rapture after watching the Steven Moffat-authored _Doctor Who _mini-episode 'The Night of the Doctor.' Fellow Doctor Who fans will understand, non-fans - well, let's just say after cruelly torturing us with months of no _Sherlock_, Moffat gave us a wonderful surprise with that little sketch. Not many surprises in this chapter, it's mostly scene-setting, but I'll get to the good stuff.

HUGE thanks to all my lovely reviewers and everyone who has favourited the story. Please continue!

**Disclaimer:** not mine, just playing. Again, there's no point in launching a lawsuit as all I own are entirely too many books, an impressive collection of horror films and a grouchy cat.

* * *

The next day dawned as clear and bright as the previous one. John awakened early, the birdsong in the copse near his windows stirring him into wakefulness. He didn't linger in bed, deciding he might as well get up and reconnoitre the mansion while Sherlock and the servant left him in peace. He went to wash and shave, after realising that he hadn't shaved in two days and that his beard was starting to grow in.

He was thwarted by the absence of a mirror in the bathroom. Sighing, he did his best not to get shaving cream everywhere or cut himself as he tried to shave without being able to see what was going on, and made a mental note to ask Mrs Hudson about a mirror.

Getting dressed was... interesting. The jeans he had worn yesterday seemed to have become two inches shorter overnight and were now a perfect fit, and looking in the wardrobe turned up his favourite cream jumper, right down to the little unpicked stitch on the left sleeve. Sighing, John pulled it on, wondering what else of his would turn up. He hoped the wardrobe had the good sense not to produce that red and green monstrosity Harry had given him last Christmas.

He took his time dawdling through the mansion, looking at the antique furnishings and paintings, the beautifully decorated corridors and intricately carved doors. He glanced behind one or two – another sitting room, done in green and with the curtains drawn, what looked curiously like a scientific laboratory, with an elaborate display of tubes and beakers and pipes resting upon a series of benches, were revealed to him.

Finally he made his way back down to the hall, and chose a door at random. This one led him down a long narrow passage with whitewashed walls, until at last he came to a heavy door. Pushing it open, he found himself in a kitchen that could have rivalled Paddington Station for size. It was an old-fashioned, black-and-white tiled affair, spotlessly clean, with long trestle tables and a huge iron range that took up half of one enormous wall. It could probably be used to prepare food for a thousand people without much trouble.

John was just about to turn around and go back when some clattering made itself known at the far end of the room. He looked, but didn't see anyone.

'Mrs Hudson?' he called, smiling.

'John!' came her voice. 'You're an early bird. I was just going to start making breakfast.'

'Want some help?' John asked, wandering further into the room.

'Thank you dear, but I'm all right. I have my own way of doing things. I suppose I'm a bit hidebound and set in routine, but I do like things to be done just so. But do come and keep me company, if you want.'

John wanted. He seated himself on a high stool and listened contentedly enough to Mrs Hudson's nattering as she set about making toast and eggs. The silence of the mansion was quite eerie, and it was pleasant to hear someone else's voice. John wondered if that was the reason Mrs Hudson seemed to be making more noise than necessary when preparing breakfast; she clattered spoons, jostled plates and set her feet very firmly on the – carpeted – floor. It probably also served to let people – namely Sherlock and himself – know that she was there. Her invisibility was total. John noticed that she wasn't casting a shadow in the clear morning light.

Mrs Hudson was just dishing up scrambled eggs when he asked casually, 'by the way, Mrs Hudson, do you know where I could find a mirror?'

_Crash! _The plate of scrambled eggs she had been about to place on the table went careering to the floor and broke into several pieces, sending bits of egg flying.

'Oh, no!' Mrs Hudson cried. 'I'm so clumsy... no, leave it, dear. I'll fix it.'

The pieces of china seemed to pick themselves up off the floor and arrange themselves on the table. Then, as John watched, they reassembled themselves into a circular object and then – his eyes widened as the pieces came together and the cracks melted away, leaving behind a perfect, undamaged plate.

'Oh, wow,' he murmured. He heard a giggle.

'Just a little bit of house-magic, young man,' Mrs Hudson informed him. 'The eggs have cleared themselves up too, can you see?' John looked, and the carpet was indeed free of food or any stains. 'That's a spell of mine. Keeps carpets clean and tidy – I have similar spells on most things in this mansion. Saves a _lot _of housework.'

John might have been scared a day or so ago, but he was learning fast. 'You are incredible, Mrs Hudson,' he informed her in honest admiration. 'Are you a great magician too?'

'Thank you, John,' he heard her say happily. 'And I'm what some people call a henwife – someone who specialises in simple spells, herbal remedies, household charms and the like. If it's anything domestic, chances are I can enchant it. And I know a lot about herbs and gardens and plants – Sherlock's mother, rest her soul, was a great herbalist. Nothing too dramatic – not like Sherlock and Mycroft. Those two always preferred the whizz-bangs and the theatrical – what most people would call high magic. Things like seeing the future or creating illusions.'

John couldn't help but think that was very in keeping with what little he knew of Sherlock. 'So there's different kinds of magic, not just good and bad?'

'All different kinds, dear. Some people have water magic, like Sherlock's brother Mycroft, or weather magic, or animal magic, like Sherlock's friend Victor. I knew three brothers from Dartmoor whose magic was in their music – they would play their instruments and call up a storm, or make an ill person better. Sherlock has fire magic – it's him who enchanted the candles and fireplaces to burn when needed here. But he has what we call high magic too, which is much rarer. And the high magic – well, it's a bit abstract. It's not quite in the world – it doesn't flow through objects and things the way my magic does. It's like electricity – you can't see it, but it's powerful, can be dangerous, and it's _there_.'

John thought about it while Mrs Hudson dished up some more eggs and buttered toast for breakfast. On the whole, he thought he liked Mrs Hudson's magic better. It was practical and straightforward and _warm_, but something inside him warned that it might be just as powerful in some ways as the high magic she had told him of.

'So, as I was asking, could I get a mirror from somewhere?' he enquired after a while.

The silence that followed his question lasted for so long that John began to wonder if Mrs Hudson had left the kitchen somehow.

'Well – I'll give you one, dear,' came her voice at last, sounding hesitant. 'But please keep it where Sherlock won't see it. He doesn't like mirrors.'

'Doesn't like what they show him, is that it?' John asked. He meant it lightly, but the comment was followed by an even lengthier silence.

'Mrs Hudson? Is something the matter?' he called after a good five minutes.

'Eat your breakfast, dear,' came her voice, sounding distracted. 'Nothing's the matter. I just need to get on with things.'

John heard her footsteps traverse the huge room and leave by a different door by the one he had come through. Thoughtfully, he turned back to his breakfast. Mrs Hudson had given him a lot to consider, not at all intentionally.

* * *

For Sherlock, the day passed with excruciating slowness. Mrs Hudson came and reported her conversation with John the previous evening, and Sherlock was relieved that resuming work on breaking the curse could begin immediately, though he was a little disappointed to think that the anticipated confrontation with John wouldn't materialise. Still, he could probably provoke another if he was so inclined.

He spent the day prowling around his rooms in utter impatience, wishing he'd had the foresight to head into the woods where at least he could occupy his mind in tracking and hunting. Sherlock did not wish to encounter John in his beast form – the less John knew about the curse the better. Sherlock had not been unaware of John's curious glances at his eyes and bare feet, and whilst John did not possess his own brilliance (who did, for that matter?) Sherlock could not risk him finding out the master and the monster was one and the same.

He had made the mistake of telling Irene Adler. And after, she had only been able to see the beast, never the man, and all hope of breaking the curse had been lost. Sherlock was not certain how to end this curse, but Irene's repulsion towards him had made it impossible to perform any experiments or work with her.

And Sherlock was intrigued by John. The doctor was not as cunning or witty or refined as Irene had been, but at least he wasn't boring. It would be a shame if he had to throw out John as he had done Irene.

Besides, after five years of hopelessness, Sherlock knew to take his chances when they came.

At last, after trying and failing to occupy his mind in various pursuits (reading, running a mental review of his last five experiments and trying to establish where exactly they had failed, firing purloined cutlery at the walls using his great-grandfather's antique crossbow) he decided to make use of the numerous secret passages within the mansion's walls and see what his contrary guest was up to.

After some time, Sherlock managed to locate John within the mansion's vast library. Peering through one of the peep-holes located next to the enormous painting of the Great Library of Alexandria, he saw the doctor curled up in an armchair, perusing what looked like fiction. The title read _The Complete Works of H. P. Lovecraft _– how dull.

John sat some distance away, and Sherlock wished he could examine him at closer quarters. Nonetheless, the doctor's expressive face was visible and for some time Sherlock occupied himself by watching the subtle changes in the man's face as he read. He wasn't used to being able to read people so clearly – Mycroft had perfected the art of inscrutability well before their enforced separation, and for obvious reasons he couldn't see Mrs Hudson's expressions and had to rely on her voice for clues as to her emotional state.

But not so with John. Sherlock knew he had been correct in assuming that the man's very soul was visible in his face and eyes – and yet John had surprised him last night, with his defiant declaration that he would not help break the curse. The man was a contradiction. Open and honest, yet concealing hidden depths, a soldier on the one hand and a healer on the other, someone who evidently cared deeply for the lives of his friends and yet professed not to give a damn about his own.

_Yes, John, _Sherlock brooded as he crouched and watched the man. _I will enjoy you – puzzling you out, finding out what makes you tick. And I daresay even your high-minded principles and stubbornness may prove useful at some stage. _

Suddenly, the object of his musings looked up sharply and glanced round the room edgily. Sherlock watched in momentary bewilderment, before realising that John must have a soldier's instinct for knowing when he was being scrutinised. He ducked away from the peepholes, slightly regretful that he would not have chance to observe more until this evening...

But then again, why wait till evening? He could choose when he was human, after all. For three hours each day he could, not undo the curse exactly, but hold it off. It was always there, hovering at the edges of his awareness, until he either ceased holding it off or its strength overwhelmed him. He had tried many times to resist it for longer than three hours in the early days, but had never been strong enough.

But the choice of when to be human was his. He didn't even have to take the three hours all at once, but could spread his time throughout the day if he was so inclined. He could speak to John now and still see him again in the evening.

Accordingly, Sherlock made his way out of the passage and to the library doors. He shifted to human, brushed himself off (why, if he wore black clothes, did all the dirt suddenly turn white?) and pushed open one of the heavy double doors.

The dark blue gaze he remembered met him steadily.

'Hello, Sherlock,' John said quietly.

'Good afternoon, John,' he replied, striding into the library. He noticed John staring quizzically at his feet and cursed his own impatience – he should have collected some shoes first. Did he still own any shoes?

'I don't go outside much,' he informed John loftily, to cover his slight confusion. 'Shoes are superfluous to my requirements.'

John blinked. 'Oh. Fair point.' He laid aside his book. 'What can I do for you?'

'Mrs Hudson told me of your capitulation last night,' Sherlock drawled, and was gratified to see the man's expression of indignation.

'I'm doing it for her, not you,' John replied defiantly. 'I still think you're a menace to the world at large. Not to mention a pain in the neck.'

'I haven't touched your neck,' Sherlock protested. John sighed.

'It's a figure of speech,' he said, as though speaking to a small, slightly dim-witted child. 'It means you're a bloody nuisance.'

'Yes, well, I think you're a stubborn romanticist with a hero complex,' Sherlock answered back, aware he was taking some pleasure in the dispute. 'So, now that we've established beyond all doubt that we don't like each other, shall we get to work?'

He leapt lightly onto a rolling staircase that ran down the left side of the room, pushed off with his foot, and coasted to where the books on magic started. His family had amassed a considerable collection over the years – at least on his father's side. His mother had kept her own diaries about her magic, mostly on trivial things like the weather and trees and birdsong, and Sherlock had never bothered with them.

'Here!' he swept a book off the shelf and held it out, gratified to feel it taken from his hand a moment later. 'The books on this shelf are all relating to magical perception and ways of seeing. Take that one too...' He handed down two more and tossed the forth in John's general direction.

There was a muffled thump, an 'ouch!' from John and then the clunk of a book hitting the floor, and he looked round to see John massaging his head. 'Watch where you're chucking those things! Unless you want an assistant with amnesia.'

Sherlock smirked. John's steady blue gaze turned steely, so Sherlock applied himself to getting more books off the shelf, in a most unusual moment of discretion. 'That should do for now,' he announced a moment later, jumping down from the staircase. 'Start looking through those books for anything relating to eyes or spells that require two people to be undone. I'll get some more to work through.'

John carried the books obligingly to one of the library's huge oak tables. 'But haven't you looked through these already?' he asked as he set them down.

'Of course,' Sherlock called back as he scrambled up a ladder that led to the balcony that ran round the edges of the huge room, in the same manner as the balcony in the hall did. He perused the shelves that stretched up to the tall ceiling, stalking along the balcony until he found what he wanted. He leaned over the railing to see John looking up at him curiously. 'But now that you're here, I might be able to ascertain something I was uncertain of previously, or perform a spell I was unable to before.'

He held a pile of books over the railing. 'Catch these,' he ordered. John backed up hastily.

'No way!' he informed Sherlock, who huffed in exasperation – did John have to fight him about everything? He shoved the books in a dumb waiter and lowered it to the floor below with a very bad grace. Then, wanting to startle his unwilling guest, he jumped onto the balcony railing, lowered himself to hang by his fingers for a moment, and then dropped, landing lightly on the balls of his feet.

He turned, and was both amused and disappointed by the wry grin on John's face instead of the anticipated shock. 'Nice moves,' John informed him.

Sherlock grinned back. 'I used to give my dear brother convulsions by climbing up the shelves right to the ceiling. You must have stronger nerves.'

John shrugged. 'I fought in Afghanistan. After war, getting shot and doing post-mortems, it takes a bit to shock me.'

'Post-mortems? What are they?' Sherlock asked, momentarily forgetting they were meant to be focusing on curse-breaking.

'Well, basically examining dead bodies, to find out the cause of death,' John answered, as Sherlock listened in fascination. 'I've seen all sorts – murders, accidents, some that have been dead for years before being discovered. And some crime scenes, where a death has taken place. I take it magicians don't need them.'

Sherlock thought a moment. 'It's seldom we need to establish how a magician died. Sudden, unexplained deaths are quite common and we don't tend to investigate unless the magician in question did not deal with dangerous magicks. We never learned exactly how my father died for instance, though the most reliable source said he insulted a dragon and paid the price. Even _I'm _not so foolish at that.'

John's face wore the stunned expression Sherlock had noted last night when he mentioned demons, but it faded quicker than it had done last night, suggesting John was growing accustomed to new revelations about the magical world. 'I'm sorry,' John said after a moment of assimilation.

Sherlock looked at him in bewilderment at the apparent non sequitur. 'What for?' he asked, bemused, which was rapidly become a frustratingly familiar feeling when dealing with John Watson.

'That you lost your father, you idiot,' John answered with exaggerated patience.

Sherlock's face cleared – John was expressing sympathy, a conditioned social response. 'No need. I was only three years old and didn't know him in any case. He was seldom at home, according to Mycroft – he was usually travelling the world, studying various magicks.'

John did not respond to that, though as Sherlock gazed at him he perceived a softening of the eyes that suggested John thought that piece of information a cause for sadness. Irritated by the other man's emotion, he turned back to the books.

'Pass me that small one, would you?' he asked with deliberate nonchalance. An instant later it bounced off his head and thudded onto the table. He clapped a hand to his cranium and turned to glare at the smirking John.

'Oops,' John remarked. Sherlock thought about engaging in full-blown, book-hurling warfare, an idea not without appeal, but then reflected as time was short and John was a former soldier and had therefore presumably had some knowledge of military tactics it would have to wait for another day.

He opened the first volume with a decided movement and applied himself to _Spells of the Mind's Eye._

* * *

To the equal surprise of both, they worked well together, despite a few sticky moments when John objected to something Sherlock said and Sherlock failed to understand why ('Stop glowering, your sister is an alcoholic and stole from you to fund it, I've not deduced anything you don't already know').

Sherlock read from the books, explained a few things to John, and mused out loud, while John listened, took notes and asked the occasional question. Sherlock found it agreeable to have a companion who did not chatter endlessly (one of Irene's faults, usually an information-gathering ploy) and who he could bounce ideas off and receive a semi-intelligent response.

For, John, meanwhile, the world was getting larger and more wondrous with every revelation, about dragons and seeing the future and enchantments. If not for the fearsome monster he had met yesterday and the loss of his freedom, he would be tempted to view his situation as some remarkable adventure.

Sherlock ended up staying in the library well past the hour he had intended, and only the chandelier lighting itself in response to the growing dark outside made him recall that he had intended to see John later that evening also.

'Time for a break, I think,' he announced to John. 'Go and see Mrs Hudson about your dinner, I shall see you in the living room later.'

'Aren't you coming to dinner?' John asked a trifle hesitantly. Sherlock shook his head.

'I have other business to attend to. I will see you later,' he called over his shoulder as he exited the room. He ran a short way through the corridors before assuming beast form again, and went to his room to pass the time pacing, glancing every ten seconds at his clock and uttering pejoratives about slow-moving timepieces.

John meanwhile, closed the book he had been examining and stared at the library doors. He wondered what Sherlock's business consisted of – issuing orders to his servant-cum-jailer, perhaps. It was probably best not to enquire.

He wandered over to the chair he had been sitting in, sighing as he saw the volume of Lovecraft stories perched on the arm. He hoped Lestrade and Molly and even Anderson were all right and not too worried about him and that Harry was okay. John felt slightly guilty for forgetting them all for the past couple of hours – he had enjoyed the research with Sherlock despite the man's apparent total lack of social skills, which revealed themselves in complete want of tact, frequent rudeness and utter mystification as to why John might be offended by his statements.

And he had no apparent knowledge of popular culture, most periods of history or practical gardening, as John had found out over the course of an hour and a half. A casual reference in one of the books to rose hips had Sherlock asking if they were part of the human anatomy, and John's reference to Sherlock meeting his Waterloo in the curse on the mansion had been met with yet another blank stare. Still, John was just as clueless when it came to anything magical, so he supposed it balanced out.

He put the Lovecraft book back on the shelf, gathered up the notes he had made that afternoon and went to enquire about dinner. Working with Sherlock had made him hungry.

* * *

Nine o'clock struck on the mansion's numerous clocks, and found Mrs Hudson and John on their way to the little sitting room Sherlock and John had used the previous evening. John had eaten with Mrs Hudson in the kitchen, despite her protests that she had set up the dining room table with the best silverware. John had cringed inwardly at the thought of eating alone in what was sure to be some massive baronial dining hall, meant for balls and hunting feasts, and charmed Mrs Hudson into letting him eat with her.

They had chatted cordially as they ate, John asking questions about the mansion, Sherlock and Mrs Hudson herself. Mrs Hudson had recovered her usual good-humour since the awkwardness at breakfast, and it was through her that John learned that the mansion's wardrobes had been spelled by a Holmes ancestor to produce items belonging to any guests, in order to spare them the inconvenience of packing. A similar spell existed in the pantry, to conjure up food as it was needed. That was one mystery partially solved at least, though John still had no concept of how the spell actually worked – were items teleported into the mansion, or duplicated somehow?

Its magic, Mrs Hudson told him, and left it at that. _What a convenient phrase, _John thought to himself as they made their way to the living room. _It explains everything, and yet explains nothing._

He opened the living room door to see Sherlock standing in almost exactly the same posture as he had been in when they first met the previous night, one hand on the mantelpiece, the other on his hip, eyes gazing into the fire.

John paused for a moment, taking in the appearance of the man before him, struck not only by the man's appearance but by the fluid grace that seemed to inhabit every posture and movement. He wondered if magic bestowed something otherworldly on its practitioners or if such elegance was innate in Sherlock.

Then he shook himself inwardly and went forward to seat himself in what he was already coming to think of as _his _chair.

'Stay with us, Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock called without turning to the door. A moment later the rocking chair shifted itself a little nearer the fire, before starting to rock gently. John smiled, realising the indignation expressed when Anderson threw himself down in the chair. He turned back to Sherlock to find the man watching him yet again.

'Do you always stare at people so much?' The words were out of his mouth before he realised it, and John blushed slightly in embarrassment. Sherlock did not seem offended however, though he raised a dark eyebrow at John's evident chagrin.

'You must make allowances, John,' he replied. 'I've been alone here for quite some time and I have had little in the way of human interaction to apply my skills of observation to, save Mrs Hudson who most inconveniently cannot be seen. And you are both easy to read and somehow continually surprising.'

'Was that a compliment, or just a statement of fact?' John enquired.

'The latter,' Sherlock informed him. 'I don't pay compliments.'

'He really doesn't,' Mrs Hudson chimed in. 'He wouldn't say thank you for anything if I didn't keep nagging him until he gave in.'

'Surely that's common courtesy, not compliments,' John protested.

'Well, even I couldn't get a thank you out of Sherlock unless he thinks I've done something really useful or excelled myself somehow, so I suppose in a way the thanks are a compliment,' mused Mrs Hudson.

'Or perhaps he specialises in back-handed compliments, where you're not sure if you've been praised or insulted,' John suggested, getting into the spirit of things.

'Or perhaps _he's _still in the room and wants to change the subject!' Sherlock interrupted grumpily. John turned away so Sherlock wouldn't see him smirking, and he had a sneaking suspicion that Mrs Hudson's face wore a similar expression. Sherlock threw himself down in the chair opposite John, long legs hanging over one arm and head flung back over the other. He still wasn't wearing any shoes, and John watched the twitching of his long, pale feet for a moment or two.

'Okay then,' John said good-naturedly. 'What do you want to discuss?'

'Something new! Tell me about yourself, and don't be boring,' Sherlock ordered. John raised his eyebrows.

'Surely you can deduce everything about me by looking at my shoes or my haircut?' he asked dryly.

'Most things, yes, but it would be helpful if you filled in a few details,' Sherlock answered in all seriousness, missing John's humour. 'Tell me how you met those people you arrived at the mansion with.'

John returned his eyebrows to their original position, and sighed, feeling all traces of levity flee. For a few moments he had felt as if he were sharing a comfortable evening by the fire with friends, but Sherlock's words had reminded him of the circumstances behind his staying here. He glanced over at the other man, and saw that the bluely dancing eyes had stilled and were fixed on him.

'I'm a police coroner – I have responsibility for establishing for what caused someone's death, in the event that the death comes to the attention of police. Molly – the girl – is my assistant, and Greg Lestrade and Anderson are police officers. In Lestrade's case, he's a damn good one. We'd been out to look at a dead body when we tried to take a shortcut back to the police station through the woods and lost ourselves. And the rest you know.'

John's voice cooled towards the end of his recital, and Sherlock shifted to sit properly in his chair so he could face him.

'And how did you become a police coroner?' he asked, sounding genuinely interested. John shifted his gaze to the fireplace, not sure if he would relish telling that particular tale – it wasn't embarrassing and didn't show him in a bad light, but it touched on still-tender feelings and memories.

'You know I was a solider?' he asked rhetorically. 'I got into that because of medicine, ironically enough. My family wasn't wealthy enough to send me to university, and I had to pay the fees somehow, so I joined the army and they paid. I found I liked the life and stayed with it longer than I had to. Well, I was serving in Afghanistan as an army surgeon. One day, a patrol I was out with came under attack – I took a bullet in my left shoulder, nearly bled to death before they got me back to base. I was invalided out and sent back home. My shoulder has mostly healed, but the injury won't allow me to return to combat.'

John paused in his telling to glance over at Sherlock, but the other man's face was impassive. John looked at the pale aristocratic features for a second, struck again by the man's charisma, but then turned back to the fire.

'I was living in London, with no job, no partner, no focus of any kind – I was just drifting, taking each day as it came. One night I had been out for a walk, to clear my head, when I saw a man being attacked by two men with crowbars. So I did the stupid thing and pitched in with all my might. It got a bit sticky, but it ended with the crowbar-wielders being knocked out cold and me patching up the man who had been attacked.'

John smiled a little as he recalled that evening. 'Once the man was done yelling at me for fighting them off instead of calling for help, he introduced himself as Greg Lestrade. The two who had attacked him had been the brothers of a drug dealer he'd helped put away for ten years. Long story short, when Greg learned I was a doctor he helped me get the police coroner job and the rest is history.'

Sherlock let out a low whistle. 'Quite the man of action, aren't you? Well, I'm afraid action and adventure are in short supply in this household, but now that you are here at least life will be less dull.'

'I'm sure with your servant hanging round that it's anything but dull,' John said tightly, irritated by Sherlock's cavalier response. 'How many times a day do you have to stop him killing something – or someone?'

'None,' replied Sherlock with an icy inflection that flicked on the raw. 'He is as rational as you or I. He hunts to feed himself, true, but his actions yesterday were in response to what you did to my violin – he knew what such destruction would mean to me.'

'Exactly – his actions were calculated,' John snapped back. 'If he had hurt Greg because we attacked him or because his instincts got the better of him, then that I could understand. But torturing someone to coerce me to stay here – that's why I hate him. It was conscious cruelty.'

Sherlock was very still for a few moments after John had finished, his topaz blue eyes never leaving John's face. Mrs Hudson's rocking chair was also motionless, John realised as he looked at it out of the corner of his eye.

'What about his appearance?' Sherlock asked softly, his cold anger fled in the wake of confusion. 'Do you not find that repulsive?'

'Well, he won't win any beauty contests,' John offered with a lame attempt at humour. 'But he can't help how he looks, I'm guessing. It wouldn't be fair to hate him because of that. But if he's as rational as you say, he must have notions of good and evil, some conception of what he was doing when he tried to kill Greg. Hurting a man for what wasn't his fault, to force me – I can't get past that.' He twined his fingers together as he spoke. 'I owe Greg a lot. It wasn't fair that he had to suffer because of me.'

There was another lengthy silence. John leaned back in his chair, watching Sherlock's face carefully, but no clues as to the other man's thoughts were forthcoming. John continued to watch, however, noting how the firelight brought out reddish undertones in Sherlock's inky black hair.

'Would it help if I apologised for my servant's actions?' Sherlock asked jerkily, as though the sentence had broken free unbidden from him. 'He saw nothing wrong in them but – but what you say makes some sense.'

John shrugged. 'You didn't make him do what he did, I suppose. If he's your jailer too, then I can't really hold you responsible.' He meant this as reassurance, and was surprised to see real disquiet flicker over Sherlock's face. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and Sherlock stood abruptly.

'I shall leave you now, John,' he said tonelessly. 'I shall send for you again tomorrow, to resume our work. Spend the day however you wish. And do not worry about my servant. He will never come near you again.'

Sherlock left swiftly, bare feet making no noise on the thick carpet, never turning back to look at the man left in the sitting room, staring after him. A moment later, the door seemed to shut itself behind him.

'Oh, dear,' he heard Mrs Hudson say. 'I do so hate it when he gets in these moods. He won't eat a thing for days.'

'I'm – sorry,' John managed, still taken aback by the revelation that the heartless individual he had become acquainted with, had feelings that could be hurt – though he wasn't sure w_hy_ Sherlock had been offended. 'I didn't mean to upset him like that.'

'Oh, it wasn't your fault, John,' she reassured him. 'Sometimes his situation gets a bit overwhelming for him. Sherlock has a very low tolerance for boredom and five years stuck here has almost driven him mad. And then he hates the servant and yet feels responsible for him, so he's conflicted by that too.'

John thought about it, as Mrs Hudson resumed rocking in her chair. Maybe Sherlock wasn't the total bastard he had thought him. Perhaps he was only a partial bastard.

'Did you mean what you said, dear?' Mrs Hudson said suddenly, making him jump. 'About you not hating the servant because of how he looks? Our previous guest screamed her head off every time he came near her.'

John was really going to have to enquire about this 'previous guest' Mrs Hudson kept referring to. But first things first... 'I meant it,' he answered truthfully. 'When I saw him for the first time, I was scared, but I realised that he wasn't the same as those creatures in the woods. If he had been friendly, or even if he was angry but hadn't attacked us, I wouldn't have minded him.'

John trailed off, as something, some detail from yesterday plucked at his memory. The monster, its claws and its fury, it's deep growling voice and vivid expressions, so familiar-seeming... the monster and something blue, icy...

He jumped again as a hand squeezed his shoulder, before realising it was Mrs Hudson. He covered her invisible hand with his own again, smiling upwards at where he thought her face was. He heard her breath catch for a second, and wondered why.

'You are a good man, John Watson,' she informed him, and he felt the heat rise in his face a little. 'You are,' she insisted. 'I'm glad you're here. Because Sherlock needs you and I need you too. And so does the servant.'

'How so?' John asked, bewildered.

Mrs Hudson gave his shoulder another squeeze.

'Because beasts can be tamed, John. If that's what they want.'

That was hardly an answer, but before John could respond Mrs Hudson had moved away from his side and to the door again. 'Come on, young man,' she instructed. 'Bed for you. I'll bring you some cocoa before you sleep.'

And John, knowing an order when he heard one, did as he was told.

* * *

Long after John and Mrs Hudson slept, a shadowy, twisted figure paced the halls of the mansion, deep in thoughts of a new and entirely disconcerting nature. Thoughts of good and evil, kindness and cruelty, idealism and cynicism and many other strange, complicated things. Thoughts of the man, so ordinary and down-to-earth, who had thrown him, weaver of spells and breaker of curses, master of mystic arts, into turmoil in two-and-a-half days and the same number of nights.

In the darkest hour before dawn, Sherlock found himself standing before John's door, listening to the quiet breathing of the man who lay slumbering behind it. An urge to look upon John as he slept, watch his face and limbs twitch and move as he dreamed, gripped at Sherlock with an intensity that left him breathless.

He reached for the door handle – and caught sight of his malformed limb, clawed, thickly covered with black fur, fingers long and gnarled.

Sherlock pulled his hand away as though the door was white-hot and had burned him. He had promised John the servant would never come near him again – he had to honour that promise. A monster had no business being near the man who hated it – hated it with reason, as Sherlock was coming to realise.

He loped back to his own room as fast as he could go on two legs, and curled up in a corner to wait for the morning, his own disgust with himself making him flinch in almost physical pain. Sherlock cleared his treacherous, troubled mind through sheer force of will, and fell into an uneasy doze.

John meanwhile, shifted in his sleep, dreaming of Sherlock. He dreamt that the man had come to his room, looking lost, woebegone, alone. In his dream, John reached out to him, but Sherlock shook his head and turned away. When John went to look for him, he had gone. And John's heart ached for him.

* * *

**Author's notes****: **The term 'henwife' is borrowed from the brilliant novel _Lolly Willowes_ by Sylvia Townsend Warner, first published in 1926. It's about a woman who rejects the life of a maiden aunt and becomes a witch instead. To meet one's 'Waterloo' is to encounter something you find exceedingly difficult or impossible to master.


	10. Chapter 10

Hi all! Wow, that last chapter was a popular one, considering that not much went on... This one is shorter, but I'm going to rachet up the angst, so be warned! Speaking of which:

**Warning: **an animal dies in this chapter, so if that sort of thing upsets you, skip over it. John takes off all his clothes at one point. Also, things get weird and twisted in this chapter, so tread carefully. Let's just say Sherlock has trouble reining in his animal instincts...

**Disclaimer: **same as always. Not mine, this writing is just for fun.

* * *

A week wore itself away, each day following the same pattern as the first one John had spent with Sherlock. He would rise early, breakfast with Mrs Hudson, and spend the morning and early afternoon wandering the grounds and mansion. The library was his favourite haunt, but there was a maze in the grounds he got lost in a couple of times, as well as beautiful gardens to wander through, with sculpted hedgerows and old trees and statues and a small brook running through the grounds. And on one day he found himself in a gallery containing portraits of what must be Sherlock's ancestors.

John had lingered there for a long time, looking at the portraits, which ranged from the Tudor period to the almost contemporary. Sherlock himself was there, ten years younger, with all the fire and arrogance John had noted in him when they first met blazing in his painted eyes. The metal frame that surrounded it was scratched, dented and damaged, and covered in what looked remarkably like claw marks, a little to John's alarm. Next to Sherlock's picture hung a portrait of another dark-haired man, softer-featured and rather chubby, but with equally intense eyes, that John presumed was Sherlock's brother.

A little way below those portraits was a dark patch on the wall where a painting had once hung. A small brass plaque hung underneath, dull and unpolished, bearing simply the name _Martha._ John assumed it meant Mrs Hudson. He was sorry it had been removed, as he would have liked to learn what she looked like, and wondered what had become of it.

The picture that interested him most had the inscription _Violet, 1972 _carved into its simple hardwood frame. It showed a beautiful woman, with long black curling hair and high cheekbones, gazing out of the picture. She was leaning against what looked like an oak tree, and a robin was perched on one upheld hand. John guessed that this was Sherlock's mother – the family resemblance was striking. Yet her young face held none of her son's haughtiness, only a merriness that was touched with deep wisdom in the lines of her features. John looked upon her for a long time, and left feeling absurdly comforted.

Late afternoons and evenings were invariably taken up by Sherlock, research, and finally a short time either talking or sniping at one another in front of the fire, in their respective armchairs. John was beginning to enjoy their arguments almost as much as he did each fresh discovery about magic. Sherlock knew all about magic, of course, and much of it bored him, but with a little prompting he would explain things to John, and even demonstrate.

'Quite simple, really,' he said once, plucking a flame from a candle and with a few dramatic gestures shaping so it resembled a deer leaping its way over the palm of his hand. John had watched, entranced. Sherlock had snorted at his awe. 'Quit gawping, it's little more than a parlour trick. Fire is easy to magick.'

'All this magic, all these amazing things, and yet you have no capacity for wonderment, Sherlock,' John said softly, as the deer grew wings and turned into an eagle. 'It's all just business as usual for you.'

'What else can it be?' Sherlock asked him, sounding curious. 'I have always known magic and have always practised it, so it holds no surprises for me. That is the attraction of curse-breaking – there's always something new to puzzle out.'

'There are _always _surprises to be had, Sherlock,' John had remonstrated as Sherlock returned the flame to its candle. 'No one can know everything in the universe.'

'I intend to try,' Sherlock had proclaimed confidently, and John had turned back to his books with a chuckle.

Worryingly, it was getting increasingly difficult to dislike Sherlock, despite his questionable ethics. Sherlock was brilliant; there was no other word for it. His mind was scintillatingly intelligent, and he was entertaining despite his complete lack of social skills. Even his arrogance and ego were fun to undermine whenever possible. John continually had to remind himself that the man was effectively his jailer, and that he owed him no loyalty, only a grudging form of support and help.

True to Sherlock's word, John had not seen the monstrous servant since his first day in the mansion. Where the creature was hiding he had no idea, but it was evidently obeying orders not to come near him. John would have been glad to forget the monster entirely, were it not for a sense that he was missing something of importance in connection with the creature. As it was, his mind kept replaying his encounter with the beast in quiet moments, trying to establish what it was he was worrying over.

Also, when alone, reading or strolling or simply sitting thinking, John would sometimes gain the impression that he was being watched. The skin on his back would tingle, his hair would stand on end, and he knew that there was a pair of strange eyes scrutinising him. He would turn, but there was never anything there. Still, he couldn't help but wonder if the servant was lurking somewhere, keeping a watch on him.

* * *

He knew it was foolish, and risky, given John's awareness of when he was being watched, but Sherlock's fixation with John had only increased as the days passed. He saved interacting with his guest for late in the day, to give himself something to look forward to in the grey, dead waste of time that constituted the majority of his existence. Sometimes he forced himself out into the woods to hunt or simply to run and spend excess energy. But increasingly he was lurking behind trees or in the mansion's secret passages or underneath furniture in order to observe his companion.

Sherlock hadn't followed him into the portrait gallery, however – he found it too painful to wander in there and see the eyes of his ancestors, of the man he used to be, staring down upon him. He was not a fanciful man but always imagined his family staring down at him in disgust, and his own portrait seemed to mock him with reminders of what he had once been. He had tried to tear it into shreds in more than one fit of temper, only Mrs Hudson had managed to place a charm on it to prevent it being damaged. Damn her.

But he shadowed John everywhere else he went. Sherlock was well aware that this placed him indisputably within the bounds of the term 'obsessed moron.' But he was unwilling to stop. John was by far the most interesting thing to have happened to him in years. Even Adler, for all her brilliance, had not perplexed him as John did with such disturbing ease. That was probably because she hadn't babbled about morality and caring and emotions at every opportunity. Given she had been on the run from the police and looking for a hideout when she stumbled across the mansion, that was unsurprising.

But Sherlock had been forced to concede John had a point about his actions during their first, deplorable encounter. His cold-blooded violence towards Lestrade had not been one of his finer moments, and he knew he had shocked both John and Mrs Hudson. In all honesty, the idea that strangling the man would be regarded as morally reprehensible, particularly as he had not been directly responsible for the destruction of Sherlock's Stradivarius, had not occurred to him at the time. Lestrade had been a means to end, just as John had been.

But for all his disinterest in humanity, Sherlock had not made a habit of harming people to get what he wanted. And it was becoming increasingly difficult to think of John as merely a 'means to an end.' Sherlock wasn't sure what he would term John – a companion, an assistant perhaps – but he was no longer simply a device to get the job done.

A week after John's arrival, Sherlock found himself peering through a peephole he had made when younger in one of the secret passages, watching the man exploring one of the corridors on the third floor of the mansion. Sherlock had not been up to this section of the mansion in years, but he remembered perfectly well what was up here, and he watched John's face eagerly, waiting for him to try one of the doors marked with a carved sigil.

At last, John stopped before one door and reached out a curious hand. The door swung back, and Sherlock smiled his beastly smile to see the expression on the doctor's face. Incredulity, mingled with just a little apprehension that swiftly gave way to a smile of pure delight.

Sherlock's lungs seemed to have ceased operating correctly – his breath caught when he saw John's smile, and he could not for the life of him suck in any air. But before he could analyse why, John had stepped through the door and disappeared from his view.

* * *

John was standing on a beach of soft whitish sand, the sea breeze ruffling his hair and the scent of the ragged pines trees nearby drifting past. He turned to see the door leading back to the mansion standing there, offering him a glimpse of the corridor beyond. He smiled again and turned back to wander down the beach, stopping at one point to crouch and trail his hand in the waves climbing up the sand. The water felt blissfully warm. He could see the sun beaming down on him from a cloudless sky, a lone lighthouse in a sea of blue that mirrored the one below it.

_Where am I? _He wondered. _Am I still in the mansion, or have I left it and gone back into the real world? Is _any _of this real, or is it an illusion?_

His senses all told him it was real, so John decided to accept it as such. He continued to traverse the beach, only end back up at the doorway in a little under fifteen minutes. He was on a tiny island, a stepping stone in a vast sea – he could see it stretching out to meet the sky on every horizon.

John sat down on the sand and looked about him. Of all the extraordinary things he had encountered since his arrival here, this had to be the most enjoyable. There was sun, sea and sand, and utter peace, broken only by the gentle rhythmic sound of the waves and the pines creaking in the mild breeze.

John looked at the deep blue calm lapping at his shoes, and his hands, almost of their own volition, went to undo his shirt buttons.

* * *

Sherlock crouched in the scrub at the centre of the little island and watched his guest keenly. It had been a long time since he had entered any of the pocket dimensions created by his Great-Aunt Hermione, a magician of tremendous skill and vivid imagination, if more than a little eccentric. He had explored them all as a child, but had seldom visited since he was cursed – they offered no respite from his beastly state, nor any means of alleviating it.

But he felt, oddly enough, a vicarious pleasure in watching John's wide-eyed discovery of the little island, surrounded by sea, and all contained within one little room. He wondered if John had guessed that he was in a pocket dimension, or if his guest was still trying to puzzle out the mystery. He thought the latter, from John's expression – happily, the doctor's amazement at his discovery had distracted him and prevented his realising Sherlock was watching, otherwise he would surely have had to retreat and leave John alone by this point. So he continued to watch.

After a short time, John sat down on the beach, and Sherlock stared at his back, the left shoulder as always held more stiffly than the right. Then he started slightly – John was removing his shirt. His shoes and socks followed, and then he stood.

Sherlock's mouth went dry as John began to remove his jeans, a wholly irrational response to – to what, exactly? Sherlock wasn't entirely certain, as his brain went the same way as his lungs had earlier and refused to work properly. John hesitated for a second after taking off his jeans, hand on the waistband of his underwear, and Sherlock managed to draw breath.

Then the underwear was pulled off, and Sherlock found himself staring at a naked man, and completely unable to look anywhere else.

He had never seen another man sans clothing, save himself. Lack of socialising and team sports meant he had never seen men unclothed in places such as locker rooms, and sexually men had never aroused his interest. Nor had women, come to that, save one rather mechanical encounter he had succumbed to for the sake of experience.

But now, staring at John's compact frame, the scarring on his left shoulder, the golden hue the sun was bringing out on his skin and in his tousled hair, Sherlock couldn't help but find him very interesting indeed. His gaze travelled lower, running over the strong curve of his lower back, the buttocks and down to his bare legs, eyes lingering over every inch of the man's skin and muscle, drinking it all in greedily.

He was glad the man was standing with his back to Sherlock's piercing gaze. John's naked form was having a most peculiar effect on him physically – his breath was hitching in his throat, his heart was hammering and his innards seemed to be writhing and squirming in ways he was fairly certain nature had not intended them to. Heaven help him if he saw what John's manhood looked like – the very notion was making him tremble. What _was _this? Sherlock couldn't ever recall feeling like this before.

Was it plain curiosity? No, impossible – he knew what curiosity was, and it dwelt within his mind, not his body.

_Is this desire_? He wondered. The impulse to walk out and touch John, run his hands over the golden skin, to run his fingers through the fair hair, was nearly overwhelming. Sherlock controlled himself rigidly, forcing himself to remain still and silent, but could not bring himself to look away.

He continued to watch as John waded forward into the water, before leaning forward and swimming out into the sea, a bright figure amid the blueness. Slowly, as the doctor put some distance between them, and as his body was concealed by the water, Sherlock's physical reactions dwindled, rather to his relief.

He stepped back into the shadows, calculating the odds of reaching the door and leaving without John spotting him – and realised that he was still a beast. He had not yet been human that day. His reactions – had they been a result of this form?

Instead of reassuring him that his response was merely another physical demand of his monstrous body, his gorge rose and nausea clawed its way up his throat. Ridiculously, he felt that somehow he had defiled John, reacting as he had – reactions that he had no right to have, not as a monster. Sherlock did not know why, but the thought that he had been affected by John, unclothed in all innocence, whilst spying on him and shaped like a monster into the bargain, made him want to use his claws to tear bloody strips off his hideous face and hide, made him want to suffer, to do penance. To make this beastly body he loathed contort with agony and purge it of the sensations that had gripped it.

Sherlock did none of those things. As soon as he was sure John was far enough out in the water that he wouldn't be spotted, he slipped like a shadow over the sand and through the door. He did not stop running until long after he reached the woods and had vented his anguish on a rabbit that screamed as it died a mercifully swift death. As he ate the raw, dripping meat, the image of John stripping off his clothes played itself across his consciousness, teasing him, tormenting him, until he threw back his head and howled to the blood-red sun above.

* * *

John swam for longer than he intended, and after he had dried himself by simply lying in the sun for a time, dressed and run fingers through his short hair to tidy it, it was well past the time he usually met Sherlock in the library to commence research, or at least commence note-taking whilst Sherlock thought aloud, got frustrated, hurled things and proclaimed 'this is _boring_! Let's move on!' He hurried down, apologies at the ready, only to discover that the huge room was deserted. He settled in to wait, conscious that he was disappointed rather than relieved by his housemate's absence.

An hour later, he was growing anxious about the break in routine. Sherlock always turned up by five at the latest, they would work for two hours, and then part and meet again later in their sitting room. John had been sent no message or indication Sherlock would be late or that he would be taking a day off. Sherlock might simply have not bothered about informing him about a change in plans, he was superior enough for that, but he had been so ardent about their research that it seemed unlikely.

At last, John went to locate Mrs Hudson in her kitchen, to see if she knew where Sherlock was, but to no avail.

'Don't worry dear,' she advised him. 'Sometimes he gets in one of his moods and vanishes for days at a time. I'll go and have a look for him. You sit here and have your dinner – I made lasagne for a change.'

John toyed with his food, managed to eat most of it to please Mrs Hudson, washed up and then went back to being partly worried and partly annoyed. He wandered back into the hall and went to the sitting room to wait, but grew bored after only a few minutes. Sitting there by himself wasn't nearly as diverting as sitting there and arguing with Sherlock. His chair looked curiously empty minus its usual lanky inhabitant.

Eventually, John left the room and went back to wandering the corridors, not really seeing any of the beautiful artwork or decoration that adorned it, wondering what had become of Sherlock. That the man was moody he was well aware by this stage, but vanishing for no apparent reason seemed a bit extreme. Still, there might be a reason John wasn't aware of. He hoped the servant wasn't causing problems.

It was while pondering the monstrous servant that John caught his first glimpse of it in over a week. He had paused at a window that looked out upon the vast sweep of gravel that formed the drive, and as he stood there, he saw a dark figure moving against the pale road. A twisted shape, that went on all fours. John froze, initially nervous, but he relaxed as he realised the creature probably couldn't see him, high up as he was and standing behind a heavy curtain. Indeed, the monster did not look up as it walked, its eyes fixed firmly on the ground as it moved slowly back to the mansion. John watched it pass underneath the window and out of sight.

John moved on then, walking slowly along the carpeted hall, sighing as he contemplated the servant's presence in the mansion. What _was _it about the creature that had gotten under his skin?

He paused in his wanderings to lean against the corridor wall, next to a small marble statue of an owl decorated with what looked like semi-precious stones. Its obsidian eyes gleamed at him in the fading afternoon light.

'I don't suppose you know where Sherlock's got to, do you?' John enquired laconically. The owl didn't respond, but as John gazed at it a light seemed to flicker in the polished stones of its eyes. John started – a week ago he would have dismissed it as reflected rays from the setting sun, but now he was less ignorant and more credulous. Was something sending him a message? Cautiously, he put out a hand to the statue. As he did so, his hand brushed a large moonstone set in the statue's breast like a medal of honour.

And without the slightest warning, the wall and floor moved, swung round, and seconds later the corridor was empty, save for an identical stature sitting immobile on its pedestal, indistinguishable except for the carnelian eyes that twinkled merrily in the growing gloom.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **I hope I didn't freak anyone out too much with this chapter! Actually, freak out all you want, I'd rather horrify my audience than have them go 'meh'. But I wanted to convey the idea that one of the real cruelties of Sherlock's curse is that he has a human's feelings but no safe outlet for them. And where has John ended up? Well, you'll find out soon - and John's going to be finding out a few things too... One last thing: Great-Aunt Hermione is of course named for Hermione Granger of _Harry Potter_ fame, one of fiction's greatest heroines.


	11. Chapter 11

Hi all! Not much by way of introduction today, just on with the show! I'm assuming you've read my previous ten disclaimers, so am not going to bother hereonin. So, we left John... where?

* * *

John suddenly found himself standing on the other side of the wall in Stygian darkness. He didn't have time to be frightened, as a moment later a candle standing in an alcove lit itself and shone brightly. He picked it up and looked around.

He was standing in a narrow stone passageway that led off into the dark in both directions. It was cold, but not damp and there was no dust or cobwebs to be seen. A chink of light was visible through one wall, and he put his eye to it to glimpse the corridor he had just been standing in.

John smiled despite himself – a secret passageway! It was like one of the adventure stories he had read as a boy come to life. He pulled away from the wall and examined the statue of the owl, still sitting on a semi-circle of carpet that had evidently been the key to accessing the passage. It had been simple enough to get in, so he decided to try getting out – no sense in exploring unless he was sure he had an escape route.

Five minutes later he gave up in exasperation, as the owl's obsidian eyes seemed to glimmer merrily at his futile efforts. John groaned inwardly at his predicament – it would be deeply embarrassing if he had to be rescued by Sherlock because he'd been daft enough to get stuck in a secret passage. He'd better try and find another exit.

'Okay,' he said decidedly to the owl. 'You got me into this, so you can get me out. Which way should I go?'

The owl did not answer. But standing there John felt a sudden rush of air – a breeze, whistling up the corridor, bending the candle flame, plucking at his shirt. It was showing him which way to walk, to go left. John hoped it was, anyway.

'Well, I'll try it,' he said to the owl. 'But I'm going to come back and kick you if I wind up being saved by Sherlock.'

Yet again, that merry twinkle in the eye that John was not wholly sure was a reflection of the candle flame. Shaking his head, he set off down the passageway, keeping an eye out for statues, peepholes or anything that might indicate another way out. But there was nothing that caught his attention, only the smooth stone floor and grey walls.

He had walked quite some distance, albeit slowly and cautiously, when he came to another peephole. Wondering if this signalled another exit of some kind, he put an eye to it and peered out, looking for clues as to how to extricate himself.

What he saw instead was what seemed to be a smallish atrium he had not seen before. A round room with a domed ceiling and corridors branching off in all directions, it was thickly carpeted and bare of all decoration save two windows lazily letting in the reddish light of the sunset. John was about to turn away when a hunched figure lurched into view.

John froze as he recognised the monstrous servant. He had no desire for another confrontation with the creature, and he stayed motionless, trying to breathe as quietly as possible for fear it would realise that he was hidden somewhere. But the creature seemed weary, preoccupied – it halted in the middle of the small room, head bowed, shoulders slumped, long arms dragging at the carpet. As John looked, he realised that the fur on its face and paws was matted with blood.

As were the black shirt and trousers it wore. Come to think of it, the monster had been wearing similar garments the one and only time they had met. John would have frowned in speculation had he dared move a muscle. Why the hell would a creature with such a thick pelt bother with clothing?

'_There _you are!' came a familiar voice, and he realised in some shock that Mrs Hudson was there and sounding faintly exasperated. 'I've been looking all over, John's been getting worried. What's happened?'

'Nothing,' came the low discordant growl John recalled, but something in the inflection caught at him as intensely familiar. 'I needed to get away for a short time. Where is he? Is he all right?'

'He's fine, dear,' Mrs Hudson answered at once. _Dear? _John thought incredulously. 'I'm not sure where he is, he's probably having a wander round. Do go and see him soon, he was quite anxious when you didn't turn up for your research this afternoon.'

The monster did not respond at once. John stared at it, at its dark clothing, the huge clawed unshod feet, the beast's evident rapport with Mrs Hudson, and an unbelievable idea began to form in his mind.

'I'll need to get cleaned up first,' the monster uttered. 'No research today, we'll just sit in the living room and talk, he's diverting enough provided I tune out the sermonising. Besides, we've made no real progress, damn it.'

'Give it time, dear. Go and have a nice hot bath, and for goodness sake put those clothes in the laundry hamper this time! Why you won't allow me to use my cleaning spells in your rooms is beyond me.'

'Because Herne knows what you'd end up cleaning away! You would scrub the hieroglyphics off the tomb of a pharaoh given half a chance,' the monster groused, its tone and words achingly similar to those John would hear while working in the library or while sitting by the fire, and John's idea suddenly took on a distinct shape and structure.

_Sherlock...? _

John, as still as the marble statue that had gotten him into this situation, heard Mrs Hudson's familiar tutting and her footsteps fading away down the hall. The monster continued to linger in the atrium, however.

And as John watched, the arms shortened, the claws retracted, the shoulders sprang upright, and human features emerged from that beastly countenance. It wasn't like the werewolf transformations in the films, there was no snapping of bones and tearing of muscles, the change flowed like water over a fall, smooth and swift and sleek. It was over and done with, in mere moments.

It was only then, as John looked upon the face he was coming to know so well, still stained with blood around the mouth, eyes (_those eyes!_) slightly glazed from the exertion, tall frame shaking from excess effort, that he put most of the puzzle pieces together. The nagging feeling of déjà vu when he had first met Sherlock, the creature's grief and anger over the ruined violin, Sherlock's never wearing shoes, his apparent dislike of mirrors... The evidence had all been before him, but his mind had not made the necessary leaps in logic – or was that leaps in the fantastic? Everything, everyone in this place was so far beyond the realm of his experience John simply did not have the knowledge or understanding to make any sense of it.

Stunned by the revelation, he watched as Sherlock lifted a hand, looked at the blood on it, and sighed deeply before striding off in the opposite direction to Mrs Hudson. It was only then, when Sherlock was safely out of sight that John's paralysis ceased. He turned and fled back down the passage the way he had come.

This time, when his hand touched the moonstone, the entrance swung round at once and deposited him safely in the corridor. He looked wildly at the owl for a few seconds, its eyes seeming – ridiculously – to shine with glossy sympathy, before turning and running once more. He had to get somewhere – anywhere – where Sherlock was not. He had to hide until he had made sense of it all.

One question stood foremost in his mind, burning there, as he ran. Was Sherlock a man forced to look like a beast, or a beast concealed behind the form and face of a man?

* * *

John had not had any definite destination in mind when he began running, but as he paused for breath at last he realised he had returned to the corridor that contained the island-within-a-room. He had forgotten which door it lay behind, and instead of taking time to search for it grabbed frantically at the nearest door handle. The door opened easily and John slipped inside noiselessly, wishing he was able to lock it. Casting about for something to brace the handle with, he realised he was standing in a forest.

A pine forest, carpeted with fallen needles, quite unlike the deciduous trees that comprised the wood he and his colleagues had been hunted through. The sound of running water echoed pleasantly, and the light was a soft pink, the sun stepping daintily toward the horizon. John forgot about bracing the door handle and fled into the forest, following a rough earth trail through the trees.

He had run along it for only a minute when he found the waterfall. It was not a huge one, maybe fifteen feet tall, but it was certainly picturesque, tumbling down from a little cliff into a deep pool, frothy where the water fell but clear elsewhere. Acting on a hunch, John carried on round the bank of the pool and towards the waterfall. Clambering carefully over the slippery rock, he inched his way behind the water and found himself in a cool, gloomy, damp but not threatening cave that appeared to extend some way back into the cliff that supported the waterfall. He journeyed in for a little way until he found a little niche in one wall, large enough for him to nestle into.

John did so, sitting down and wrapping his arms around his knees. He felt a little safer here, where he could watch the only entrance and be ready in case Sherlock found him. The revelation that the monster who had threatened to torture him and his colleagues to death and the brilliant, infuriating, fascinating man he had conceived a strange liking for were one and the same was hard to stomach.

Why _hadn't _anyone told him? Well, that was obvious, John thought grimly. Here he was, hiding in abject terror. Sherlock and Mrs Hudson hadn't wanted him to know because if he did, he would refuse to work with Sherlock in breaking the curse that supposedly lay over the mansion. How could he be responsible for unleashing a monster like that back on the world?

_But is he such a monster?_ An annoyingly reasonable voice asked in his mind. _He's kept one promise – no one has hurt you. And he did let Lestrade and Molly and Anderson go. _

After almost choking Lestrade to death, that is.

John rested his forehead on his knees, head spinning.

_Mrs Hudson says that he's not evil, just thoughtless and careless. And you've gotten on well together, insufferable so and so that he is. _

Mrs Hudson could have told him a pack of lies, for all he knew. John was aware _he_ was a terrible liar, but not everyone was. It must be easy to lie, if your facial expressions could not be read.

_But she loves Sherlock – I'm sure she's not lying about that. She's known him since he was a child..._

John looked up, unseeing, as something occurred to him. Mrs Hudson had told him that the curse had been cast on them both five years ago. Was Sherlock's beastly alter ego another aspect of the curse, or had he always been thus?

Unbidden, a memory returned to him – his very first glimpse of the monster. He had awakened at the sound of the living room door opening – war had left him a very light sleeper. He had blinked awake, only to be paralysed by fear as he glimpsed a monster gazing at them – to begin with, he believed that the monster that had hunted them all that terrible night had somehow discovered them, had come to slaughter them.

But the monster had not attacked them, only looked long and hard. And then, when its eyes had met John's... that cool blue, so different from the dull glaring yellow that had constituted the other creature's eyes. Cool, intelligent, surprised. John had known, somehow, that the monster had not intended to attack them.

Until Anderson, that bloody fool, had destroyed the violin...

John shivered at the memory of the monster's – Sherlock's – rage. It all came back to that, didn't it? He wouldn't care what Sherlock looked like, handsome aristocratic man or deformed monster, if he shared Mrs Hudson's conviction that there was a good man inside whatever form he happened to be in. _Is Sherlock a good man? If he isn't, could he learn to be one somehow?_

John didn't have the faintest idea.

But he wouldn't find out sitting here, in the cold and the damp.

He sighed wearily. What to do now? Have it out with Sherlock and demand to know what the hell was going on, whether Sherlock was man or beast? Carry on as if he remained in ignorance of his housemate's double life?

John was turning over the possibilities in his mind, each appearing equally wretched to his view, when he heard what sounded like the scrape of claws on stone towards the back of the cave.

Panicked, he strained his eyes as he stared into the darkness, wondering if Sherlock had followed him into the cave somehow. But the eye watching him was not Sherlock's icy blue orb, but golden-brown in hue, and the size of an orange. It had a glazed, feverish look to it, but it regarded John steadily.

Then it screeched a simply unbelievable cry, a cross between an eagle's shriek and lion's roar that echoed like a bomb blast around the cave.

'Oh, fuck,' John said.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **yes, John does seem to have a knack for getting into sticky situations, doesn't he? Till next time...


	12. Chapter 12

Hi all! Enjoy my cliffhanger? I did *evil laugh*! Anyway, I'm blissfully happy after watching _The Day of the Doctor_, the _Doctor Who _50th anniversary celebration, so here's another nice long chapter for you. Sherlock and John finally have an adventure...

* * *

Sherlock's bath was hot, thorough, and over in seconds. He did not want to waste time being human in preening when he could spend it with John. He had decided his unwonted response that afternoon was the result of seeing another man unclothed for the first time in his life, nothing more, just a little excitement at a new discovery, and to file it away in his mind as experience.

Nothing more.

He could not allow it to be anything more. Both for the sake of his own sanity and for John's continued safety. And for the sake of their working relationship – research would be impossible if Sherlock developed unwarranted feelings towards his guest, regardless of whether they were emotional or physical.

Emotion was the grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment, rust on the gears – whatever the metaphor, emotion was a handicap he could not afford. He required every iota of his intellect clear and focused if he were to overcome what Moriarty had done to him.

With that thought firmly fixed in his mind, Sherlock dressed, ran his fingers through his hair to tidy it and went to find John.

He was not in the library, kitchen, his room or their usual sitting room. Acting on a hunch, Sherlock headed upwards to Great-Aunt Hermione's pocket dimensions. A quick glance round the room containing the island confirmed John wasn't in there. Sherlock stepped back into the corridor and let his keen eyes roam over the corridor, searching for clues.

_There. _A tiny scuff on one door frame, where the sole of John's shoe had scraped against it, suggesting he had been in a hurry when he'd entered the room, hence not opening the door fully and brushing against the frame – _why the hurry? _Sherlock wondered.

He opened the door and let himself in, smiling a little as he remembered camping here as a child. Mycroft had, most grudgingly, accompanied him on a couple of occasions, and had proved to be quite competent at cooking sausages and beans over a campfire. Sherlock set off in search of John. _Hurry suggests he is either hurrying towards something or away from something. John loved the island this morning, so likely he was eager for more exploration – _

'Aargh!' came a yell, followed by a colossal splash.

Sherlock sighed – it looked as though John had found the waterfall and inadvertently gone for a second swim. He hoped the man's clothes did not cling to him _too _much when wet, another episode like this morning's would be remarkably inconvenient –

A high-pitched scream, neither bird nor cat but something in-between, split the quiet forest evening apart like an axe on wood. Sherlock abandoned all mental processes and ran like a bat out of hell towards the waterfall, heedless of the fading light and twigs and stones under his feet.

He burst onto the scene just in front of John, who was dragging himself out of the pool onto the bank. John halted his movement as he caught sight of Sherlock emerging from the trees, eyes dilating in what looked like shock, but then he jumped to his feet and ran over, catching Sherlock by the arm and pulling him back towards the path through trees, that led back to the door.

'John, what –' Sherlock began, but was halted by a glance towards the waterfall – and what was swiftly emerging from behind it.

It was eight feet long and more than three feet high at the shoulder. A huge golden-brown eye glared at him, from the eagle's head that was cocked to one side, showing in profile the animal's cruelly curved beak. Massive wings – their span must have been twenty feet at the very least – extended from its shoulders, one carried proudly above its back, the other flopping against its side, trailing on the ground. A lion's body, claws and tail supported the head and wings, the tail lashing angrily.

Sherlock stared in delight. 'A griffin,' he murmured. He had never seen one so close, only glimpsed them as they flew high in the sky. 'It's _beautiful._'

'It's _hungry_!' John whispered savagely.

Sherlock blinked. 'Oh. Oh, _no_...'

And as if to confirm John's statement, the griffin lowered its head and charged.

'Hell!' Sherlock grabbed for John's hand and they ran for the door. The sounds of the creature's pursuit were entirely too near for any degree of complacency, and Sherlock ran through the woods like a deer, oblivious to the ground cutting into his bare feet. John, several inches shorter, was not as quick but fear and adrenaline lent him speed, and Sherlock kept tight hold of his hand, tugging and pulling him along.

They had just glimpsed the door when the griffin let out a yelp from somewhere behind them. Sherlock risked a glance back just in time to see it crouch and spring.

'Down!' He checked both his and John's progress, pulling the other man to a halt and tugging them both down into a crouch. There was a yell of pain from John and Sherlock realised that he must have jarred John's bad shoulder. But there was no time to apologise – he wrapped his arms around the smaller man, covering him with his own tall frame in an effort to shield him and hunkering down as low as he could.

The griffin, as Sherlock had hoped, overshot them and landed about five metres ahead on the path, claws digging into the soil as it tried to arrest its momentum. Sherlock jumped back to his feet, pulling John up as he went, and realised in horror that the creature stood between them and the door.

'This way!' He caught John's hand again and they ran into the trees to the right of the pathway, Sherlock hoping desperately that he remembered the layout of this dimension correctly. He did – a rocky little formation stood a short way from the path, the tiny cave entrance set into the stone promising salvation. It was a narrow cave, but deep – one that would with any luck put them beyond the griffin's reach.

They reached the entrance just in front of the creature. 'Get in!' Sherlock yelled, pushing John in ahead of himself. John did not hesitate, which was lucky as Sherlock barely had time to scramble in after him before the griffin caught them up. As it was Sherlock felt the creature's claws catch in the fabric of his trousers and tear at them viciously. He groaned inwardly – Mrs Hudson would not be pleased at all.

Gasping for breath, they made their way to the back of the dingy little cave, both realising with relief that the entrance was too narrow for the wide-shouldered griffin to enter. It was barely big enough to admit a full-grown man, though it widened towards the back, allowing them to turn around and stand shoulder to shoulder as they faced the animal hunting them.

The griffin crouched at the cave entrance, its head turned so it could peer down the tunnel with a single eye. From the ravenous look in its eye, it wasn't going to grow bored and wander away anytime soon. Sherlock felt an icy clutch of fear at his middle at the thought – not fear of the griffin, but of his curse. In less than three hours, he would turn into a beast again. He could _not _let that happen in front of John!

He was distracted from that grim thought by John himself, who was dripping all over the floor and indeed all over Sherlock. 'Bloody hell,' John was saying. 'You could have warned me about that thing!'

'I didn't know it was in here!' Sherlock snapped, irked by the idea he might have put his companion at risk through negligence. 'It's a griffin, a creature with magic. One of their abilities is to open doors into other dimensions like this one. It's an intruder.'

John glanced at him. 'Oh. Right, sorry.' He put up a hand to massage his left shoulder. 'Hang on, we're in another _dimension_?'

'Yes, a pocket dimension,' Sherlock answered absently, busy having a staring contest with the griffin, as John rubbed at his old wound. 'My Great-Aunt Hermione made them – miniature worlds, each contained within a single room. She apparently loved to travel, but wasn't able to do much because of other responsibilities. So she made these rooms as a substitute.'

'Wow,' John uttered, sounding utterly delighted, his pain evidently subsiding. 'You have some incredible relatives. The only great-aunt I know at all collects salt-and-pepper shakers.'

Sherlock flicked his eyes over to his companion, caught John's eyes, which were shining with excitement, and snorted with laughter. John laughed too, the shock of the griffin and the release of knowing they were temporarily safe combining to undo them both for a few moments. The griffin, still eyeing them, let out a harsh cry.

That brought them back to themselves, Sherlock remembering with an unpleasant jolt that he was running on borrowed time. He had to get them both out of here before the curse reasserted itself. He studied the animal carefully, trying to recollect all he had ever known about protection spells and defensive magic. The problem was, he had not employed defensive magic in at least five years, probably more, and was horribly out of practice. Not to mention he wasn't sure what spells would work best against a griffin. Sherlock had always preferred using his wits to get out of danger and save his magic for curse-breaking.

'What can we do?' John asked softly, breaking into his thoughts. 'We need to get away – what if Mrs Hudson comes looking for us?'

_Mrs Hudson! _Sherlock panicked for an instant at the thought, and simultaneously realised the solution to their predicament. 'I can trap it,' he announced. 'I need thread, or string – as much of it as possible.'

John glanced down at himself before lifting up the hem of his sopping shirt and pulling at the sewing thread that held it together, squinting in the darkness as he worked. 'What are you going to do?'

Sherlock took hold of the ragged end of the thread John had managed to unpick, their fingers brushing for a moment. His breath hitched as fire seemed to flow from John's hand to his, but then he clamped down on the impulse ruthlessly. 'A spell Mrs Hudson showed me a long time ago, simple but effective,' he told John. 'Knot magic. If I can tie knots in the thread, then I can weave a net to trap that thing. The magic will obey me and catch the creature if I tie the right knots.'

John had no comment to offer about that, but Sherlock saw a smile as the doctor's shirt unravelled. Sherlock concentrated on the thread, and absolutely never looked at the golden skin or strong torso revealed by the uplifted shirt.

At last he had enough thread to loop around his hand a few times, and that was enough for his purposes. Sherlock snapped the thread with a quick tug, and turned to examine the griffin, which had retreated a little but which was still watching them closely. Sherlock stared back, and then cursed volubly as a flaw in his plan made itself known to him.

'What is it?' John enquired anxiously.

'It's not going to work – griffins are magical animals, and it will undoubtedly use magic to counter my efforts at trapping it,' Sherlock answered, furious at himself at having overlooked this problem. Magical animals were not his speciality, true, but he ought to know better. Mycroft had certainly given him enough lectures on the subject when they were younger, in a mostly futile effort to stop Sherlock poking dangerous creatures with sharp implements or putting them in people's beds (usually Mycroft's).

'What if it were distracted?' John asked, and something in his voice made Sherlock turn back to him. John's face was unusually stony, but his blue eyes glowed with resolution.

'No,' Sherlock said bluntly.

'You haven't even heard my idea!' John protested indignantly.

'You're planning to act as decoy while I trap the creature. It's not going to happen,' Sherlock informed him angrily.

'Why not?' John demanded, frowning at him.

'I promised you wouldn't come to harm here, and that will become void the instant you step out there,' Sherlock said coldly. 'The knot spell will take time to cast – not long, but enough time for you to get yourself eviscerated. So no, you're not going out there.'

John stared at him, surprise dawning across his features. 'You actually sound worried for me.'

Sherlock turned away, made uncomfortable by the look in John's eyes, and the heat he could feel radiating off the other man's body, even through his soaked clothes. 'Of course I am, I'd probably have to wait years to acquire another assistant,' he muttered, and felt rather than saw the other man roll his eyes in frustration, a very John-like reaction that made himself smile despite himself.

'How long would it take you to cast that spell?' John asked him, with ostentatious patience.

'Maybe a minute,' Sherlock answered, twisting the thread around his hands as he looked back at the griffin. He looked back at John and sighed deeply when he saw the determined look on the other man's face. He knew that John had no sense of self-preservation, he just hadn't realised it would manifest in this precise manner.

'Get it away from the cave entrance so I can get away fast, and I can last a minute against it,' John told him firmly. 'It's injured – one of its wings isn't working and I think one of its back legs is hurting too. If I keep to the trees that will slow it down – it's not meant to hunt in forests I bet, it's too big.'

'Griffins typically make their homes in mountainous regions,' Sherlock acknowledged. 'It isn't used to this terrain, admittedly. But, John –'

'Sherlock, what choice do we have?' John asked him with infuriating level-headedness. 'Mrs Hudson is no pushover, but I don't want her to come across that thing unprepared. And the alternative is hiding here until it gets bored or hungry enough that it buggers off, which I wouldn't count on. It looks like it's in for the duration.'

Sherlock had to concede that was probably true. But he had given his word that John would be safe here, and he didn't make promises lightly - no magic-handler did, if they had any sense at all. The consequences of a broken vow would be dire for all concerned. On the other hand, he knew it would not be long before the curse overwhelmed him again. He thought of seeing the same fear and disgust in John's eyes as he had seen in Irene Adler's and blanched.

Without warning, a hand curled itself around his upper arm. Sherlock started, and found himself looking down at John, who was smiling softly. His smile was beautiful, Sherlock realised, even in the darkness of the cave. It lit up his whole face. Sherlock chastised himself, but the thought would not leave him.

'Sherlock, have faith in me,' John said gently. 'I was a soldier, remember. I have faith that you'll get that spell cast, so just trust me on this. Okay?'

Sherlock was finding it hard to think, with John's touch burning though the thin cloth of his shirt into his arm, with that smile lit up before him. That was the only possible explanation for his whispered 'all right' in response to John's question. John gave his arm a last squeeze and brushed past him, shuffling carefully towards the cave entrance so as to not to alert the griffin to any purposeful action.

Sherlock, for his part, cast about for a distraction. High magic, the kind he specialised in, was powerful but did not lend itself to practical things, like scaring a griffin away from the mouth of a cave for a few precious moments. Which meant it would have to be something simple and straightforward – something easy. _Like fire..._

'John, crouch down and get ready to run,' Sherlock whispered. 'I'm going to conjure up some fire to distract it. Griffins are more or less impervious to fire, but it will keep it occupied for a short time.'

John sank down into a crouch, his posture suggesting eagerness rather than fear. Sherlock watched him for a moment, and realised that on some level John was relishing this, that his desire for action and adventure was aroused and being satisfied. He took an instant to damn his use of a sexual metaphor, put all the thread into one hand and then concentrated on magicking up the fire with the other.

'Get ready, John,' he murmured. Flame burst into life and flickered along his fingertips, and he set his sights on a patch of bracken close by the griffin's forepaws. Sherlock took a deep breath.

'_Go, now!'_

John bolted. Simultaneously, Sherlock threw the fire he'd conjured at the bracken. The dry undergrowth was ablaze almost instantly, and the griffin fell back, screeching in alarm. John ducked to the left and was away through the trees in an instant. The griffin sang out – a song, not a screech – and the fire extinguished itself. Sherlock darted to the front of the cave as the griffin took off in pursuit of John.

John had not gone far – he'd halted behind a twisted pine with a double trunk, in order to keep the griffin in his sights. It went thundering towards him and John waited for it until it was at the tree and about to dodge round one side of it. John scrambled between its trunks and took off running again. The griffin, huge in stature and hemmed in by trees on all sides, cried in frustration and had to scrabble backwards to get enough space to turn around.

_Oh, excellently done, John! _Sherlock rejoiced inwardly, concealing himself behind another pine as his long nimble fingers worked furiously at the thread. Excitement and just a little fear for John lent exemplary clarity to his mind, and he worked swiftly and deftly.

John led the griffin back over to the rock formation and clambered up the outcropping with speed. The griffin came charging up and reared up on its hind legs, one bending under its weight – it was indeed injured there, a long crimson gash raking across its brownish-gold fur. It clawed at John, only to receive a kick to the beak that startled it into dropping down a touch. John continued his scramble up the outcropping and made to leap down the other side.

The griffin dropped back all on fours and turned to run after him – only to fall headlong on the rough forest floor as Sherlock's magic took effect. It shrieked and twisted in its invisible bonds, but Sherlock had done his work well. Though the griffin's magic could open locks, portals, dimensions, simple and strong knots were another matter entirely – doors, natural and otherwise, existed in the griffin's world, but knots were a purely human invention. Sherlock tied a last knot as extra proof against the creature, muttered a sealing charm against any magic it might try and tucked the makeshift trap in his pocket.

'John!' he shouted as he stepped from his hiding place. 'John!'

John promptly emerged from behind the rock formation, unhurt and only slightly flushed from his exertions. Sherlock heaved a huge sigh of relief, before reassuming his usual cool exterior.

'Our efforts were successful,' he drawled, gesturing to the griffin, still lying entangled by invisible ropes, struggling but more and more feebly. John strode over to Sherlock's side and stood staring at the trapped creature.

'Where did it come from?' John asked of no one in particular.

'Mostly likely Scotland,' Sherlock answered carelessly. 'There are several griffin colonies in the British Isles, most of them in Scotland. They make their homes in the mountains and on the moors, and some dwell on the coast. When Great-Aunt Hermione made this dimension, she must have taken some space from an area near a griffin colony.'

'Excuse me – taken space?' John stammered, in a voice that carried undertones of _yes-I-know-you-think-I'm-an-idiot-but-put-me-out-o f-my-misery-here._

'Yes, the space in these dimensions has to come from somewhere and my great-aunt usually borrowed it from unpopulated areas where few people ever go – commendable care on her part,' Sherlock carried on airily. 'She must have borrowed space from somewhere in Scotland, this griffin came across the gap in the fabric of the world and fashioned its own entrance. Griffins are marvellous at opening doors – though knots cause them problems, as you can see here.'

Both of them paused to stare at the griffin, which had exhausted itself and lay submissive on the ground, great eyes following their movements with trepidation rather than the earlier predatory anticipation. The shadows were fading all around them as the sun set and the night air had become chill, though not cold. John shivered, and Sherlock realised that his companion was still very wet, though his exertions had dried out his clothes a little. For perhaps the first time in his life Sherlock regretted not learning any of Mrs Hudson's little henwife spells – one of them could have dried John's clothes in a jiffy, as the lady herself would say.

'Why did it come here?' John asked him. 'Is it hiding? It looks as though it's been in a fight – that's a sharp wound on its leg.'

Sherlock ran his finely-honed gaze over the griffin, noting, assessing and deducing. 'Yes, offhand I'd say it's either been in a particularly nasty fight or – more likely – something attacked its colony. Griffins are social animals you see, and normally live in family groups. For a lone one to be in hiding like this is very unusual, they nearly always hunt or travel with company. Either this one was attacked, separated from its family and ended up here – or, most likely, it no longer has a family to return to.'

'Poor thing,' John murmured softly.

'Poor thing?!' Sherlock exclaimed. 'It just tried to kill and eat us!'

'It's starving, Sherlock,' John pointed out. 'Look, you see its ribs through its fur.'

Sherlock had noted this even though it was now almost completely dark in the pocket dimension. But starving or not, the griffin had tried to kill them both. John had objected violently to his – the monster's – threats to do the same to him and his friends, so Sherlock would in all probability have to put the griffin out of its misery...

Sherlock's train of thought juddered and then went careering off the tracks altogether as John knelt beside the creature, reaching out to touch it gently. 'That wing is broken,' he remarked, running a hand over the animal's flank. It bucked under his touch, but the bonds holding it remained steadfast and John continued his examination. 'And that's a nasty gash on its leg – but no signs of infection, good. I could stitch it up and then splint the wing.'

'You're _insane,_' Sherlock said, staggered by John's actions.

'Yeah, well, I guessed that when I agreed to stay here with you,' John answered absent-mindedly. 'Could you create some more fire, please? I need to see what I'm working on. And I'll need whatever medical supplies you have in the house, quick as you can.'

'John, let me get this clear in my head. This animal just tried to kill both of us, gut us and consume us and you want to try and help it?' Sherlock flung his hands up in bewilderment. 'Whatever for? My servant threatened you with death and you were adamant you would not work with me as a result. You still despise him for it.'

John had turned his back to Sherlock as he continued his examination of the griffin. Sherlock could not observe his expression, and only the sudden stiffening of John's spine gave him any indication of his companion's emotional state.

'This griffin is injured, starving and alone, Sherlock,' John said, quietly but with that undercurrent of absolute determination Sherlock recognised from their first – well, second – meeting. 'It's afraid and desperate, and when it saw a chance for a meal it took it. Your servant wanted to torture four people to death because a musical instrument got smashed. It's not the same thing. Not at all.'

Sherlock stared at his confusing companion for a full minute, but John did not turn around, continuing to gently stroke the griffin's long back. Sherlock was not altogether sure what the difference was between himself-as-monster and the griffin, but John was resolute that there was one.

So it was Sherlock who broke the silence. 'Wait here,' he said finally. 'I'll bring what you need.'

* * *

**Author's Notes: **John's stunning smile is based on two people: the first is Martin Freeman, of course. He specializes in playing grumpy characters, but just get a look at the guy when he's smiling! And then there's Vitaly Solomin, who played Watson in the Russian 80's TV series _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson_, opposite Vasily Livanov as (one of the best, in my humble opinion) Holmes. A serious-looking man, Solomin nonetheless had the merriest, most mischievous smile you can imagine. Beautifully, the friendship between the actors grew and came to mirror that of Holmes and Watson, to the extent that after Solomin's premature death from a stroke, Livanov said 'It happens so that when someone passes away, we customarily treat his actions and related events as the thing of the past. But everything about my beloved closest friend and partner Vitaly Solomin has become a part of my way of life, my conscience, so for me it will become the thing of the past only when I pass away too.' (Source: Wikipedia, the article on Vasily Livanov).


	13. Chapter 13

Hi all! Thanks for all the reviews, not least because you made me aware that some serious editing was needed! I've been rewriting this chapter to more thoroughly explain John's motives in doing what he does... as best I can. I've realised in retrospect that Sherlock and John haven't always co-operated with me, they're determined to do their own thing, if that makes sense!

**Warning: **a bit of violence (albeit in a dream). And I get ridiculously heavy-handed with the morality, so sorry in advance.

* * *

John barely noticed how cold he was becoming as stars appeared overhead and the griffin lay trembling before him – more from fear than cold, he guessed. The griffin was a beautiful animal, and he felt sorry for the creature, hurt and afraid and alone.

Waiting alone with the captive, John's mind wandered back to Sherlock and his dual existence. He had forgotten that Sherlock and the beast were one and the same when the griffin was hunting them – and it would be ignoble of him to forget the way Sherlock had tried to protect him from the creature. John could recall the feel of Sherlock's arms twined about him perfectly, as the man had shielded him with his lanky frame.

The _man_, not the beast. John wrapped his own arms about himself as he contemplated his and Sherlock's actions that evening. He had not hesitated in warning Sherlock about the griffin, or in working with him to subdue it. John realised with genuine astonishment that he did actually believe in Sherlock's humanity. Cornered and in danger, he hadn't hesitated in trusting Sherlock to keep him safe from the creature.

What simultaneously worried him and gave him cause for hope was that Sherlock hadn't seen any difference between the griffin's action, done for the sake of survival, and his – the monster's – done to manipulate and intimidate him into staying here. It was worrisome because Sherlock appeared to have no idea of what he'd done wrong (or at least what John considered wrong). Though on the other hand, Sherlock acting out of ignorance rather than genuine malice was easier for him to stomach in a way.

That their moral compasses pointed in wildly different directions was evident, assuming Sherlock actually had one. John sighed. Was he doing the right thing in helping the man end his curse after all?

More urgently, he was going to have to decide on a strategy for dealing with his discovery of the true nature of Sherlock's curse, and do it fast. Should he have it out with Sherlock, demand the truth from him? The idea was a tempting one, not least because deception made John very uncomfortable (and he was rubbish at it). But he had no way of gauging Sherlock's reaction to the news – would he be angry? Humiliated? What might he do if John confronted him – rant and rave, throw John out of the mansion perhaps?

Funny, but the idea of being flung out didn't appeal as much as John thought it would.

But neither did the idea of feigning ignorance. It felt too much like letting Sherlock get away with all the hurt and misery he'd caused, too much like letting him off the hook. He ought to admit what he'd done was wrong, at the very least. If John confronted him with his cruelty and deception, perhaps he could shame the other man into letting him go...

John frowned to himself as something occurred to him. He had learned Sherlock's secret thanks to the owl statue and the secret passage... thanks to a funny series of coincidences that had not really been coincidences. Because _something _had prompted his discovery, had trapped him in the passage, had shown him which way to go, where to look.

If some mysterious force was at work here, surely it could have found a way to let Sherlock know of John's new understanding – if it wanted. But it had wanted John to remain hidden, had not wanted Sherlock to know that John knew.

It wanted John to keep quiet.

'What the hell is _it_, when it's at home?' John muttered to no-one in particular, though the prone griffin gave him a funny look.

John's musings were broken in on by the sound of Sherlock returning and bringing Mrs Hudson with him, and making a heck of a noise doing it. Mrs Hudson was alternately scolding him and fussing over him, and Sherlock was answering her moodily, sounding remarkably like a child caught sneaking sweets between meals. It made John smile despite his internal conflict.

They emerged from between the trees, Sherlock laden down with various items, including a bowl of warm water, and Mrs Hudson burdened with still more. 'Right,' Mrs Hudson announced decidedly before John had a chance to say anything. 'Light some torches Sherlock, and let's get you and John sorted before we tend to the griffin.' John felt a light touch on his shoulder and realised that his damp clothes had dried themselves instantly.

'Thank you, Mrs Hudson,' he said. A second later one of his jumpers landed on his head, and Sherlock snickered.

'Put that on and keep warm, young man,' Mrs Hudson ordered him. 'I'll bring some blankets up if I get a chance, I don't want you catching cold. Now, do see to Sherlock's feet, he's cut them to ribbons in this wood.'

Sherlock, lighting some torches with fallen pine branches that gave off a lovely smell as they burned, huffed indignantly but Mrs Hudson was not to be resisted. She sat him down on a rock and John did his best with Sherlock's feet, which were bruised and scraped but not in tatters. Sherlock made the process difficult by squirming nonstop, despite John's admonitions.

'Your hands are very hot,' Sherlock protested at one point. John just rolled his eyes and carried on washing Sherlock's feet. Some ointment and light bandages sorted Sherlock out and John turned his attention to the complex problem of the griffin.

'It would be best if it were unconscious,' he reflected out loud. 'It's harmless enough as long as Sherlock keeps it trapped, but what I need to do will hurt.'

'Don't worry, dear, I brought up some of my concoctions,' came Mrs Hudson's voice. 'Herbal remedies and so forth. I'll give it a sleeping draught so you can get to work.'

John watched, fascinated, as a bottle floated over towards the griffin, which eyed it warily. Then Mrs Hudson started speaking to the creature, but for the life of him John could not make out what was being said. It was fast and full of short syllables and rhythmic, and whatever was being said made the griffin relax. The bottle was uncorked and a measurement of the sleeping draught poured into the creature's mouth, and it swallowed without hesitation or protest, lying down and closing its eyes peaceably.

'What did you do, Mrs Hudson?' John asked in awe.

'A little bit of bird-speech, young man,' she answered, putting the cork back in the bottle. 'Not griffin-language of course, but close enough that she could understand me and know what I was giving her.'

'Where on earth did you learn _that_?' Sherlock asked with unflattering incredulity.

'From your lady mother, of course,' Mrs Hudson answered quietly. Sherlock said nothing more, remaining sitting where he was. A moment later his hand went to cover his shoulder and John guessed Mrs Hudson was standing next to him. He turned back to the griffin, feeling it was the most tactful thing to do.

He had a look at the leg wound first, which was long and quite deep and must be terribly painful for the griffin. John cleaned it up as best he could before getting to work stitching it with some strong thread supplied by Mrs Hudson. Shaving the fur around the wound first would have been preferable, but John decided time was of the essence in getting the creature patched up. He bandaged it once finished to prevent the griffin picking at the stitches – though hopefully the animal was bright enough to let the wound alone.

The wing was trickier – the long bone nearest the shoulder was broken and John had to enlist Sherlock's help in setting it before he could splint it. John knew that birds with broken wings seldom recovered and were often killed by predators, and he hoped that the griffin would survive the injury.

'Right,' he said at last, after an hour's work. 'I think that's all I can do – all any of us can do. All that remains now is to keep an eye on it and see what happens.'

'_Her_, my dear,' Mrs Hudson corrected. 'It's a female.'

John smiled. 'All right, keep an eye on _her. _If Sherlock leaves the knot spell in place, I'll sit with her and watch her.'

'I'll stay for a little while too,' Mrs Hudson announced. 'Just in case she wakes, though she told me she was very tired indeed, so I think she'll sleep through the night.'

Sherlock, who had been fidgeting for several minutes, shook his head when John glanced over at him. 'I intend to go and read up about griffins, my knowledge of magical beasts is somewhat patchy,' he informed them both. 'Besides, this is your endeavour, John. I have no intention of sacrificing time that could be spent in research for the sake of something that tried to kill me.'

Sherlock stalked off through the trees, John staring after him, bemused. 'Odd,' he thought out loud. 'Why does he keep dashing off like that? He never spends too long doing research with me either – despite always going on about how important it is.'

'I was wondering when you'd ask that,' Mrs Hudson sighed in response. 'It's a part of the curse, dear. Sherlock can't spend too much time with you, the curse prevents him. I'm sure he'd love to be with you more often, but that's not possible. The purpose of the curse was to cut him off as much as possible from humanity.'

John's newfound knowledge of magic and curses assisted him in putting the pieces together this time. Sherlock must only be able to be human for a short time each day – he would be a monster the rest of the time. 'That's why you're invisible, isn't it?' he asked softly. 'So he feels more alone, so he can't see what impact he's having on others.'

'Exactly, my dear,' Mrs Hudson told him. 'That's why you being here is so important. I've noticed that you don't let him get away with anything – you always stand up to him. It's doing him good, he's not been in one of his moods since that second evening, and that one was much shorter than usual.'

For the first time since he'd arrived at the mansion, John had some conception of what life must be like for Sherlock, cut off from humanity in its entirety, forced to look like and live like a beast, unable to see himself and who he was reflected in anyone else's eyes – save John's own, now. But what was one person when you were imprisoned here, hidden from the world and all it held?

Mentally thrusting aside a pity that would do Sherlock no good and would infuriate him should he learn of it, John made his way over to Mrs Hudson and sat down with his back to a tree, where he could still keep a close eye on the griffin.

'I'm guessing he wasn't Mr. Sociable even before the curse,' he remarked to Mrs Hudson. 'But that does seem hard. No wonder he gets in those moods, as you call them.'

'It _has _been hard,' Mrs Hudson admitted softly. 'But you've brought us hope, dear, and that's what we've been sorely lacking these past five years.'

John shrugged, feeling a little uncomfortable at the profound turn the conversation had taken. 'We haven't made much progress with the research to be honest, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock's read every book in that library well before now.'

'I don't think that the answer lies in books or research, whatever Sherlock may believe,' Mrs Hudson replied, so quietly that John had to strain to hear her. A little breeze blew through the forest, catching her words and scattering them into the night, leaving only silence behind.

John, sitting in the flickering half-light cast by the torches, a mythical beast lying asleep before him, both of them in an alternate dimension created by a magician that was in turn situated in the dwelling of an enchanted man-monster, had the eerie sensation that he was inhabiting a dream or a story, that he wasn't real, that he was part of a hallucination that would vanish when the dreamer or madman awoke.

He quivered deep in his soul, and wrapped his arms around himself yet again, trying to reassure himself. He was real, surely – yet he had believed griffins to be only a story, and he was sitting in the middle of a dimension created by magic. What was true and what not? What right did he have to condemn Sherlock based on his own mundane notions of good and evil? And yet, and yet...

Hurting people because of a game, because of a rivalry, because of the desire to manipulate and deceive and win in the eternal one-upmanship that existed between arch-enemies, could never be right, he was certain.

John had once heard a man, older and wiser than him, say that nearly all evil stemmed from self-loathing. People who hated themselves lashed out at the world as a substitute. Was that what lay behind Sherlock's harming Greg, behind imprisoning him here? Did his companion despise himself, and so was immune to notions of honour, loyalty and liking?

John did not know. He put up a hand to his head as his mind threatened to rock free from its foundations and go hurtling wildly – somewhere that wasn't where it usually resided. He couldn't think of an appropriate figure of speech, not with his entire brain caught up in pondering the dichotomy of good and evil and various other things.

'Are you all right, dear?' he heard Mrs Hudson ask anxiously. 'You look very pale.'

'My mind's whirling,' he confessed, too tired and confused to formulate any kind of soothing response. 'I don't know or understand half of what goes on here, and Sherlock – he's – I don't know. I find myself liking him and then he'll say something that makes me want to hit him, and all the while I'm not sure if I'm doing the right thing in working with him. And yet I keep doing it.'

A second later, he jumped as he felt invisible arms wrap themselves around him. He stiffened for a moment, remembering the secret that Mrs Hudson had helped keep from him, but she held onto him, and at last he leaned against her, his hand going from his head to clasp one of her arms.

'You _are _doing the right thing, my dear, I'm certain of it,' Mrs Hudson sighed, somehow sounding both wistful and decided. 'The more I see of you and Sherlock together, the more I just _know _you were meant to come here. Violet would have been so happy to see you both – she always wanted a friend for Sherlock.'

John smiled, even though Mrs Hudson probably couldn't see it. One thing he felt sure of now; Mrs Hudson at least wasn't evil. He had met evil people before now, but the motherly woman who cared for him and Sherlock was not among them, he was positive.

'You said that you learned to talk to birds from Sherlock's mother?' he asked, sensing the opportunity to learn more about the Holmes family.

'I did,' Mrs Hudson confirmed. 'Violet's magic centred round nature, around birds and trees in particular. She loved birds – would chat with them at every opportunity, and quite often they would keep an eye on the boys for her. She taught me what she could, but I never quite had her knack for it.'

'She sounds like an amazing woman,' John commented, remembering the portrait in the gallery he had been so taken with.

'She was, my dear,' Mrs Hudson continued gently. 'There's not a day go by when I don't think of her. Sherlock looks so like her, and then there's not a room in the mansion she didn't add something to. If there's a painting or a statue of a bird in the house, then it will have been Violet that put it there.'

John remembered the glimmer in the onyx eyes of the owl that had led him to the secret passage, and shivered again. _The longer I stay here, the less I believe in coincidence, _he thought._ Something wanted me to know Sherlock's secret, but it wanted to hide my knowing from Sherlock. Why?_

He was too tired and overwrought to consider the question. He laid his head against Mrs Hudson's shoulder and closed his eyes. She held him close as the stars grew sure and intense in the makeshift sky and as the griffin slept its healing slumber.

* * *

John drifted on the threshold between sleeping and waking, that vague formless world where boundaries grow as weak and insubstantial as mist and where dreams and reality mingle. And in his not-quite-sleep, he had a dream, a vision; a hallucination even.

He was peering through a doorway that was open just a little, just enough for him to see a room and its sole occupant quite clearly. It was Sherlock, human, staring into a mirror that hung before him. And the face and form that looked back at him was that of the monster that John had been so frightened by.

Suddenly, without warning, Sherlock whirled round and spied John looking in at him, and his face twisted in rage and shame. 'Get out, _get out_!' he shouted, grabbing some random item from a low table and hurling it at the startled John. 'Don't look!' His yells went unheeded by John, who stood as one stunned, and with a vicious snarl Sherlock turned and punched the mirror with a trembling fist, shattering it and the beastly reflection into a thousand tiny shards of sharp glass, blood staining each jagged piece...

Then John awoke abruptly, the shattering sound of the breaking mirror echoing in his mind. The pine torches had almost burnt themselves out, and their light had dimmed to a dusky orange. It was still night in the pocket dimension, and the griffin did not appear to have stirred, though John could see its sides moving as it breathed. He could feel Mrs Hudson pressed up against his side, and could tell from the heaviness of her slight frame that she was sleeping.

He could not see what had awoken him, but he knew what it was.

'I know you're there,' he called out quietly so as not to disturb Mrs Hudson and the griffin. 'Come out where I can see you, I want to talk to you.'

A long silence was the only response, and John was just beginning to think that he had slipped away when a hunched shape came just to the edge of the pool of light cast by the torches. John looked, and from what little he could perceive in the dark the creature appeared just as he remembered. The long furred limbs, the viciously curving claws, bent shoulders and spine and short muzzle with sharp teeth. The bandages he had applied to Sherlock's feet earlier were nowhere to be seen, but looking at the creature's huge elongated paws, John guessed they had been ripped off when Sherlock transformed. He could not see the icy blue eyes – the beast kept them averted, but John remembered them well.

He sent a prayer to whatever forces were listening that he could act well enough to hide what knowledge he had uncovered that day. 'I haven't seen you in a long time,' he started hesitantly.

'I am under orders not to come near you,' it rumbled, and though the voice was different the inflections were recognisable. 'My master sent me to watch over you, that is the only reason I am here now.' John studied Sherlock for a moment, trying to shape the questions he wanted to ask.

'I'm not afraid of you,' he said finally.

Sherlock huffed a noise that might have represented either amusement or scorn. 'No, but you hate me. It's all right, I feel the same way quite often.'

'I don't hate you – well, I did at first, but not so much now,' John answered. Sherlock turned what passed for his face a little further towards John at that, though he still did not look at him fully.

'Why not?' Sherlock grumbled, not without interest. John scrabbled for an answer that would not give away the fact that he had been spying.

'Because Mrs Hudson said that you need me,' he answered at last. 'Will breaking the curse set you free as well as Sherlock?'

'It will,' the beast answered, a distinct note of longing in its unmelodic voice. 'You cannot imagine how I long for that day. I came here when the curse descended, and not a day has passed when I do not desire my freedom.'

Then Sherlock's alter ego was the result of the curse, he had not been born a beast. A strange compassion stirred itself in John, for Sherlock's self-loathing, for the miserable existence he had been forced to lead, shaped like a monster, with a few brief hours in which to be human. Torture – had Sherlock's transformation been irrevocable, John guessed that he would have learned to accept it, but daily reminders of what it was to be human must have left him unable to attain any kind of peace.

'How much do you desire it?' John asked, very quietly. 'Would you have killed my friends if I refused to stay here?'

The monster that was Sherlock turned to look directly at him, though he kept his eyes lowered and avoided meeting John's frank gaze. 'If you had refused your service, then I daresay after I had imprisoned you all for a time in recompense for the violin you destroyed, then I would have flung you out into the woods and sent you back to the world,' he said harshly, claws scratching at the ground as he waited for John's reaction.

John stared at him in utter shock. 'You mean I promised to stay here always for – for _nothing?_' he exclaimed, remembering at the last moment to keep his voice low for fear of waking the still-sleeping Mrs Hudson and the griffin.

'No, John, not for nothing,' Sherlock answered, evidently giving into an impulse and raising his eyes to study John's face. 'Could you have lived with yourself afterwards, had you refused to save your friends? No, I think not. You are a man of honour and courage. Your cowardice would have eaten away at you, ruining every moment of happiness and safety you might have attained after your release. Eventually the day would have come when you could no longer bear to look at yourself in the mirror, because it would show the face of the man who valued his own pallid existence above the lives of those he liked and respected. And then... well, then I do not know what you would have done. But it would have been a miserable existence to lead, no doubt leading to a miserable end.'

John stared back at the icy blue gaze he was coming to know so well, knowing he must look like a man stunned, but unable to hide his emotions. 'How do you know that?' he stammered. 'Can you tell the future?'

'No, John. But I know you, know what sort of man you are,' Sherlock rumbled, eyes lacking the sparkle of triumph they usually held when he made one of his deductions, instead appearing almost sad. 'Is it not better you remained true to yourself and stayed here, instead of returning to a life of self-hate and self-castigation?'

'I'm not sure,' John managed to get out. 'I don't like being blackmailed or having my life threatened.'

Sherlock stared at him. His expression was hard to read on that face and in such dim light, but John thought that he looked confused. 'That – the griffin tried to kill you, earlier,' he said, gesturing vaguely at the sleeping creature. 'Yet you've helped it. I threatened you, fair enough, but why condemn me for it?'

John took at deep breath and looked the monster right in the eye. He had to make Sherlock _see_, somehow. Sherlock's knowledge of John's character and his moral guidelines meant that the man had _some _understanding of good and bad, what was right and wrong. And with that in mind, he spoke out.

'Because what the griffin did, it did for survival. You did what you did to manipulate me. Because you were angry and wanted revenge. You didn't attack us because you were hurt and starving, you did it just because you _could_.' John paused, but the beastly face was inscrutable. 'You're trapped here, and I'm sorry for it. But that doesn't give you the right to hurt other people – or to inflict the same fate on me. If we'd hurt you first, if you'd been starving like the griffin was, then I'd have stayed to help you. We would have owed you that. But you injured my friend and took my life from me for your own ends. There's a world of difference between you and the griffin, can't you see that?'

Silence you could have cut with a knife. John could feel it like a blade at his own throat. He waited, because there was nothing else to be done.

At last Sherlock spoke. 'I _didn't _see, John,' he said, in as close to a murmur as that low growling could get. 'But I – I do now and I'm sorry for what I did to you and your friend. I wasn't, but now I am, a little.'

John heard no insincerity in the rough voice. He smiled a touch. 'Just a little sorry?' he asked, almost playfully.

'I am sorry for my method of keeping you here, but I can't be sorry that you are here,' the beast answered, lowering its eyes once more. 'You are right, you're needed here. We're all glad you've stayed. You are a mystery, John Watson, and my master dearly loves a mystery to be solved.'

'So he's told me,' John said wryly, deciding that was as good an apology as he was going to get. 'Well, let him puzzle me out, I don't mind.'

The beast quirked it head to one side. 'I'll leave you now,' it rumbled, backing into the shadows as the torches burnt ever lower. 'You have given me much to think over. Sleep again, you'll be safe from the griffin – and myself.'

'I'm not afraid,' John replied, leaning his head back on what felt like Mrs Hudson's shoulder. 'Not anymore.'

'Then sleep well.'

John watched the hunched figure slink away, and let his eyes fall shut. He was almost asleep when he heard the two-note hoot of an owl somewhere in the little forest. It should have startled him awake, given that the forest had been devoid of birdsong throughout the evening and the night that followed, but instead it seemed to tip him over the edge between waking and sleeping, and he knew nothing more.

* * *

Sherlock moved just far away enough from John and Mrs Hudson to avoid disturbing the former again, and settled himself amongst the roots of a particularly gnarled pine. He had some serious thinking to do, but he was not in as much turmoil as he had been after his and John's previous discussions on morality. In fact, he felt oddly relieved, as though a burden of sorts had been lifted from him.

Ridiculous.

Sherlock was not unaware of what others considered good and evil, though he had seldom considered them in relation to himself and his actions. But it was true – his suffering didn't necessarily give him the right to inflict the same on others. Hurting Lestrade had not improved his situation or helped lift the curse. Sherlock had not considered the consequences of his actions at the time – when had he ever? Mycroft had often lectured him about his propensity for jumping headlong into situations without thinking things through. Sherlock had paid him scant attention.

But John's gentle reproaches had succeeded where Mycroft had failed. Sherlock knew now that there was a difference between what he had done and what the griffin had done. Actions for the sake of survival as opposed to his machinations, done to procure himself an assistant, a necessary component in his curse-breaking. To deprive a man of his home and freedom.

Except that John was no longer just a 'component' to him.

Not for the first time, Sherlock wondered at John's power over him. To make him see things anew, to make him consider the morality in his actions... It was irritating to a man in his position, who needed his intellect focused and uncluttered by trivialities such as what was necessary and what was only his own inclination but it was... intriguing, at the same time.

Disturbing, to think that he had inflicted the same fate on John as Moriarty had on him. Sherlock flinched as the alien thought manifested itself. It was true; he had taken a man's freedom as surely as he had been deprived of his own, just as John had pointed out.

He would _never _be as cruel towards John as Moriarty had been towards him. He would _never _make John suffer as he had. But there were parallels between Sherlock's actions and those of his archenemy that he was decidedly uncomfortable with.

But he could not bring himself to regret that John _was _here. With him.

Sherlock curled himself up as weariness manifested its presence within him. He would do everything in his power to ensure John's safety and happiness, something Moriarty would _never _have considered doing. John could be content to remain here, Sherlock was certain. He would just have to puzzle out what made John happy.

Yet another facet to the enigma that was John Watson.

Sherlock closed his eyes, smiling a little at the thought, and slept more deeply and serenely than he had done in a long, long while.

* * *

They all woke with the dawn, John and Mrs Hudson stiff and yawning, the griffin awakening quietly and lying still, awaiting its fate, Sherlock awakening in an instant, shifting back to human, taking John's bandages from his pocket and reapplying them to his feet, and proceeding to where the still-captive animal was being kept. It was displaying none of the ferocity of the previous evening, lying quite placid as Mrs Hudson spoke to it.

'I think it's safe to take the knot spell off now, dear,' Mrs Hudson informed Sherlock after a few moments. 'She's promised not to try and hurt anyone again, and I've told her I'll bring some breakfast in any case.'

Sherlock glared at her. 'John patches her up, you want to feed her – shall I just give up my bedroom while we're at it?'

'Sherlock, just remove the bloody spell,' John told him. 'You can grumble afterwards, I want to see what she does now.'

Sherlock untied the knots with deliberate sulkiness, though not before he made sure to insert himself between John and Mrs Hudson and the griffin, just in case the creature got any ideas about disembowelling and eating and so forth.

When the bindings were removed the griffin shook itself, staggered to its feet and lurched towards them – towards John. Sherlock stepped pointedly between them. The griffin looked at him for a second, then extended her head and nibbled at his shirt cuff with her sharp beak. Sherlock yanked his arm behind his back, and the griffin went for the other shirt cuff.

Sighing, John stepped to stand beside Sherlock. The griffin forgot its interest in Sherlock's haberdashery and with a little murmur, rubbed its head against his middle. Smiling, John stroked the soft feathers on its head. 'See, Sherlock?' he asked rhetorically. 'She just wants to say thank you.'

'More than that,' came Mrs Hudson's voice, and Sherlock could see the griffin's feathers ruffle where Mrs Hudson must be stroking it. 'She attacked you and you repaid her with kindness, when you had no reason to do so, and in return she wants to stay and look after you both – and me. She has no family to return to, poor girl – they were all killed, she says.'

'Wait just a damn minute – she wants to stay? Here in the mansion?' Sherlock sputtered. The griffin rubbed her head against him, and he glared at her, but decided not to shove her away. John would no doubt be cross with him for it.

'It's not like you don't have room, Sherlock,' John said absently, as he rubbed her neck. The griffin nuzzled his hand, evidently liking having the back of her head scratched.

'She's a griffin – she won't like living indoors or in woodland,' Sherlock snapped. The griffin went for his cuffs again, looking up at him pleadingly – or at least as pleadingly as possible, considering she was the size of a tiger, twice as strong and could flatten him with one blow of her paw.

Sherlock ignored the gaze for the sake of their mutual audience. It was true that space in the mansion was not a problem, but what would happen should the griffin encounter him in beast form? In all likelihood the outcome would be unpleasant for both of them. On the other hand, she would be another welcome diversion in his miserable existence (well, bearable existence, now John was here). And not to mention John evidently wanted her to stay, which for some reason was the deciding factor.

Sherlock had no intention of capitulating without _some _show of resistance, however. He had a reputation to uphold.

'Oh, she won't mind where she lives, indoors or out, not so long as she has company,' Mrs Hudson proclaimed happily, breaking into his thoughts. 'Griffins are very adaptable animals. She'll be quite content here, I should think. And she'll be company for me when you boys are busy with your research.'

Sherlock scowled as the griffin pulled at his shirt. This was going to be hell on his already highly abused wardrobe. 'No. I don't fancy having an overgrown eiderdown wandering the halls. She'll have to go and find some other griffins to live with.'

'Sherlock, she's injured and it will take her a while to recover,' John pointed out with infuriating reasonableness, and Sherlock lessened his frown just a little in response. Encouraged, John carried on. 'She'll have to stay for a little time, at least. Besides, Mrs Hudson says she has nowhere to go – why shouldn't she stay, if she's willing to live alongside us? We've got plenty of room, as I just said. You needn't see her at all if you don't want to.'

Sherlock heaved a sigh, one that hopefully conveyed the impression that _I-think-you're-both-idiots-and-am-only-doing-this-for-the-sake-of-peace_. 'All right, she can stay. But she doesn't go anywhere near my rooms and she leaves us strictly alone when we're working. And _no _hunting except in the woods!'

John beamed, and Sherlock felt that increasingly-familiar hitch in his breathing at the sight. 'Brilliant,' John remarked. 'Now that's settled, I think breakfast sounds like a really good idea. Could you find some meat for our new friend, Mrs Hudson?'

'Plenty!' Mrs Hudson announced cheerily. 'Raw meat for her, and a nice fry-up for the rest of us. It's been a long night, I want to make sure you boys eat properly today.'

Sherlock snorted indelicately, and was immediately head-butted in reproach by the griffin. He shot her a haughty look, but she merely lashed her tail innocently. John laughed at their antics, and suddenly Sherlock wouldn't have minded if an entire griffin colony had taken up residence in the mansion.

Grumbling for the sake of show, Sherlock led the way to the door, the griffin limping behind him, Mrs Hudson chattering away next to her, John lingering a little to look at the forest as the sun made its presence felt. They reached the doorway, which was much too small for the griffin, but she merely sang out another high-pitched note and the door suddenly widened itself enough to accommodate her.

Sherlock was impressed despite himself. He glanced at the griffin and was surprised to receive a wink.

Mrs Hudson and the creature passed through the doorway, which immediately reverted to its old size, and Sherlock turned back to look for John, who was lingering to admire the pocket dimension. But his shoulders were most uncharacteristically slumped in weariness, and Sherlock, also uncharacteristically, reached to take hold of his arm.

John jumped at the physical contact, but offered no resistance as Sherlock linked their arms and led him through the door, back into the corridor and towards Mrs Hudson's kitchen. They strolled slowly through the house, Sherlock feeling curiously at ease, as though he had done this many times before. Perhaps in a past life they had done this, walked along together, arm in arm, before returning home to food and company.

Absurd notion, of course.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I was once lucky enough to be at a book signing/Q and A with Gregory Maguire, author of _Wicked_. When asked why he thought people were evil, he said he thought that evil stemmed from self-hatred - people who despised themselves lashed out at the world as substitute. Whilst I'm not sure I wholly agree, it struck me that it might be at the root of Sherlock's less-than-nice behaviour in this story. His self-loathing is going to cause problems, for him and for John. Wait and see what I mean...


	14. Chapter 14

Hi everyone! Loads of thanks due to my lovely reviewers, you've been a tremendous encouragement and a real help in spotting plot holes. More magical goings on in this chapter! Oh, and I know I said I was done with disclaimers, but while I don't own _Sherlock _or anything related to it, I do own the griffin (most gratifying!). So, enough rambling, on with the show...

* * *

Within the span of another week, the griffin seemed to have become as much a part of life at the mansion as Mrs Hudson or Sherlock themselves. Regular meals of raw meat solved the malnutrition and she began to gain in strength. To Sherlock's secret pique, the mansion's pantries had magically begun stocking meat for her, when they had never provided enough for him in his beast form – hence his regular jaunts after prey in the woods. Still, the new supplies meant he could scale back his hunting, to his relief.

The griffin's leg wound was also healing well, though her wing still caused John some anxiety as he had no way of putting it in a sling to aid healing. Still, it didn't cause her too much discomfort.

Tired of referring to her as just 'the griffin', John had also enquired after her name, but her name in griffin tongue – several syllables long and a real jawbreaker – had defeated even Mrs Hudson. So, after consulting books about names in the library, and the griffin herself via Mrs Hudson, he had settled on the name Raghnaid for her, which satisfied all parties. Except for Sherlock, who persisted in referring to her as the 'infernal Greek myth' and the 'featherbed in waiting.'

His grumpiness towards her did not seem to bother Raghnaid, however, and she continued to nuzzle against him and nibble his cuffs and collar just as much as she did with John. And Sherlock soon discovered a few uses for her, such as using her as a footstool when he and John had their nightly bickering session before the fire.

There was one awkward moment, when Sherlock, in beast form, came upon her unexpectedly as he rounded a corner. She had hissed and crouched defensively, getting ready to spring.

'No, don't, it's me!' he had cried, reverting to human. Sherlock had half-expected she would gut him on the spot, but she had chirruped in surprise before snuggling against him as she usually did. Raghnaid had encountered him in beast form several times since then, but seemed to regard his dual existence as a funny quirk of his, rather like Mrs Hudson's invisibility, and behaved with the same affection she showed him when he was human. To say Sherlock found this bewildering was an understatement, but he could not deny it was agreeable.

But best of all, since Raghnaid came to live with them, something seemed to have shifted in the relationship between himself and John. It could be accurately termed a relationship now, for starters. But the reserve he had felt in John, the other man's efforts to keep Sherlock at a distance, the sense that John did not find him wholly comfortable company, seemed to have melted away. Despite the fact that their research still had turned up nothing new or significant in terms of breaking the curse, Sherlock could not regard the time he spent with John as anything but...

_Successful _was not quite the right word, but it was as close as Sherlock could come in his analysis of the situation. He was not sure what had prompted John's sudden thaw towards him, though as it dated from the night they first encountered Raghnaid it stood to reason it was something to do with the griffin. Perhaps doing – or at least giving into – something John found morally upright had shown his stubborn guest that Sherlock was not quite the depraved individual John had cast him as.

He continued to shadow John around the mansion when in beast form, and noted that the other man was not nearly as jumpy as he had been his first week in the mansion, though Sherlock could tell that John knew he was being watched – a slight stiffening of the shoulders, a glance around at nothing in particular, John always gave the game away. But he did not appear unduly worried by the sensation, and so Sherlock continued to look his fill.

Sherlock had also enquired as to why John had been in such a hurry to get into the forest dimension, quite casually one evening. John had started before muttering something about wanting to explore, which was pertinently a lie, and after some questioning had admitted to seeing the servant returning from the hunt, being spooked by the sight and hastening to get away safely.

Sherlock, furious at allowing himself to have been spotted whilst covered in blood and no doubt looking hideously savage, had not bothered to enquire further, but resolved in future to save his hunts for night when he would not be seen by his companion. John had evidently reached an accord – at least in his own mind – with the monster after their discussion, but Sherlock, jealous of John's regard, had no intention of allowing John to become remotely familiar with his alter ego.

Besides, John's evident fear of the servant burned deeply, and confirmed Sherlock's decision about not telling him the exact nature of the curse. He would never tell him willingly – besides, with any luck, John would never have to learn the truth, not if Sherlock found the solution to the curse. Finding the answer would set them both free.

Sherlock was not quite sure why the idea of John's freedom being granted troubled him a little. So he disregarded it as much as possible, and focused on their research – or at least tried to. _Something _had to turn up soon.

Or so he told himself, as images of John swimming naked through the warm blue sea danced across his consciousness or the phantom feel of John's body in his arms impinged upon his sense of touch. The idea that the solution was just around the corner was the only thing that could focus his normally forceful powers of concentration on his and John's work – that and the ambiguous realisation that it wasn't his beastly form that had responded to the sight of John unclothed, but Sherlock's inner self.

Such realisation was a relief, a relief to think that it was whatever humanity that remained in him that had undergone such an intense reaction, not his monstrous self. It was disquieting, because whatever had awoken in him at the sight of a naked man had not died down with time. Sherlock had to labour hard to suppress it, and it reared up in him at odd times. So it was all the more vital that they make some progress at breaking the curse and _fast_. This state of affairs was _maddening_.

* * *

Yet another fruitless afternoon in the library found them in the sitting room, John regarding a sulking Sherlock (feet propped up on Raghnaid, who was gnawing a marrowbone) with equal parts sympathy and amusement. Sherlock had tried an experiment relating to visual perception with John that afternoon, designed to allow the be-spelled person to look through all illusions and perceive the truth – another utter failure in curse-breaking terms, though John had enjoyed the results.

Sherlock hadn't. The spell had knocked John flat on his back, and Sherlock, who was coolly and collectedly beside himself with worry, had just been about to yell for Mrs Hudson and her healing remedies when John had informed him that he could see stars.

'Did you hit your head?' Sherlock had asked as calmly as he could manage.

'Nope,' John had answered, staring in fascination at the ceiling. 'I mean literally. The roof's gone, the clouds have gone, I can see the night sky. It's brilliant.'

If Sherlock's glares (comprised of both anger and relief) could maim John would have lost his arms and probably a leg into the bargain, but he failed to notice Sherlock's mood, getting distracted by a parade of shooting stars. The spell wore off in a few minutes and Sherlock, incensed at himself (for getting it wrong) and John (for scaring him stupid and not noticing, not that Sherlock wanted him to, _Gods this is confusing_, he thought crossly), had stormed off, pausing only to inform John he would be down in the sitting room as usual later.

So here they were.

'Stop sulking, Sherlock,' John said good-naturedly. 'So it didn't work, we'll try something else tomorrow.'

'Such as?' Sherlock asked moodily.

'How should I know? You're the great magician, I just do the legwork.' John regarded him with affectionate exasperation. 'Maybe we should have an afternoon off. Take the griffin for a walk or go and have a look at another of those pocket dimensions.'

'No.'

John considered for a moment. 'Maybe there are some artefacts or books that aren't kept in the library that you haven't looked at? We could have a rummage in the attic and see what turns up.'

'No. I know every inch of this house and the attic holds nothing of interest.' This was not true, but more than one room up in that part of the house evoked recollections Sherlock found immensely painful, and for that reason he preferred to stay away.

'Well, do you mind if I have a look anyway?' John asked. 'Provided you haven't got a dragon chained up in there or something.'

'Don't be idiotic, how could I fit a dragon up there?' Sherlock grumbled. 'And before you say "how should I know?" for your information dragons are massive animals, usually over thirty feet in length even if they're on the small side. And yes, they do breathe fire, and have very strict notions of honour.'

John raised his eyebrows. 'Right, thanks for letting me know. But seriously Sherlock, perk up a bit. I thought that spell this afternoon was brilliant. I swear I could see Saturn's rings – the whole solar system, up close and personal. I'll never forget it.'

Sherlock looked bemused. 'The what?'

'The solar system – you do know about the solar system?' John asked, disbelief beginning to seep into his voice. Sherlock shrugged.

'It's probably irrelevant to my work – I have never encountered a curse that required knowledge of the solar system to break it.'

'You don't know about the planets? You have no idea that the earth rotates around the sun?' John spluttered, still apparently stuck.

'What possible difference could it make if it goes round the sun, round the moon or – or – round and round the garden, like a teddy bear?' Sherlock demanded irritably. 'It makes no difference to my work, and _that _is all I care about!'

He pulled his feet off Raghnaid and started storming up and down the living room, just to prove his point. Raghnaid huffed at him before going back to her bone. John sighed, wondering if he ought to cut his losses and have an early night, as well as wondering at the fact that Sherlock knew nothing of astronomy but apparently had a working knowledge of nursery rhymes.

'Gods, I miss my music,' Sherlock muttered as he paced. 'At least when my violin was intact I could play to pass the time.'

'It can't be mended then?' John asked, rather ruefully.

Sherlock paused mid-stride, before heading over to the carved wooden sideboard that adorned the wall next to the doorway. Opening one elaborately carved cupboard door, he extracted the remnants of the violin with a sigh of his own. 'No,' he answered sadly. 'Neither myself nor Mrs Hudson have the magic necessary to fix it, and I haven't the skill to mend it by mundane means. And for some peculiar reason I can't bring myself to throw it away, despite the fact it is no longer playable.'

John stood and crossed the room to join him in looking at the broken instrument. 'I understand, Sherlock. It means a lot to you, whether it's smashed or not.'

They remained in silent contemplation for a minute, before John spoke again. 'I don't think I ever gave you a proper apology about breaking it, you know,' he remarked. 'I _am _sorry about it, you know.'

Sherlock glanced at him in slight surprise. 'It wasn't you that destroyed it, why be sorry for it?'

John tilted his head in thought. 'Well, call it collective responsibility. It was my idea to try and spend the night here when we all first came here. And I don't think I realised at the time how precious it was to you. I'm sorry it's ruined, no matter whose fault it is.'

Sherlock neither accepted nor rebuffed the apology, remaining silent in response, but the corners of his mouth turned up just a little. With a noise that was meant to indicate his boredom with the discussion, he shoved the remains of the Strad into John's surprised grasp and went to sit back by the fire, propping his feet back up on Raghnaid, who murmured contentedly and shuffled a little to accommodate him. John remained where he was, turning the violin round in his hands.

'Have you had it a long time?' John asked curiously. 'Mrs Hudson said you learnt to play when you were a child.'

'I was six when Mama – my mother – acquired it for me,' Sherlock answered offhandedly. 'I used to take lessons from a friend of Mrs Hudson's, a woman whose magic dwelt in music. She was a good teacher, and I passed the hideously out-of-tune phase before Mama and Mycroft got too fed up. Before my mother got too fed up anyway.' Sherlock paused in his recollections, as a memory returned unbidden to him.

'I used to play for her in this room, in fact. She would sit _there _–' gesturing at the sofa, '– and I would stand before the fireplace and scrape away. My mother always loved anything one could dance to. On one occasion she got hold of Mycroft and made him dance while I played. He was mortified of course, so I kept the music going as long as I could. He wasn't a bad dancer, as it turned out.'

Sherlock's eyes lost sight of the living room as it was now, recollecting that long ago afternoon, the flushed cheeks of his elder brother belied by his grudging smile, his mother's merry laughter and his own delightful sense of being someone's partner in mischief. His Aunt Cerridwen, a weather witch who had been staying with them at the time, had come downstairs to find out the source of the noise and promptly joined in, conjuring bright sunlight that sparkled through the windows as she did so. How different the mansion had been then – full of life and escapade and unpredictability, so unlike the mausoleum it had become since the curse.

Except... here he was, with a griffin as housemate and a new partner in crime, who was both fascinating and remarkably annoying, and anything but predictable.

Sherlock's black mood faded as he contemplated the life that had returned to the mansion since John had arrived there. For all their lack of success in breaking the curse, his existence was no longer the grey, misery-filled vastness he had known for five interminable years. It was bearable – more than bearable.

With a wry smile on his face, Sherlock returned to the here and now, and turned his head to look at the still unmoving John. And then he felt it – a _pulse_ that travelled through the air and caught at his heart, causing it to tighten for the briefest of moments.

And then John's legs gave out beneath him and he fell quietly to the floor, the violin falling from nerveless fingers with a soft thud.

Sherlock sprang up from his chair, fell headlong over Raghnaid, who squawked a protest, and crawled to John on his hands and knees. 'John?' he asked frantically. 'John!' He laid a hand on the other man's chest, and was relieved to feel the steady rhythm under his palm. John's breathing was even, and Sherlock realised he had simply fainted, though he had no idea why.

Very carefully, he got one arm underneath John's shoulders and the other under his knees and lifted him, cradling him gently, before laying him down on the sofa. John did not appear to be injured, nor had he displayed any symptoms of illness before passing out. Sherlock frowned. What had just happened?

There was another call from Raghnaid, and Sherlock realised that she had left the hearth and crossed over to where the sideboard stood. She was nuzzling something on the carpet, and Sherlock, though loath to leave John, went to see what she was indicating. She looked up at him with a distinct glimmer in her eye, and shifted aside.

His violin lay there – but it was no longer broken and smashed, but whole, undamaged and perfect, as though it had never been touched by any hands but his loving, musical ones.

Sherlock crouched down and picked it up, staring in utter incredulity, which swiftly gave way to sheer delight. His beloved violin, restored to its former glory. He stood back up and leapt over to kneel beside John, still lying on the sofa. Gently, he ran his hand over the other man's soft hair. 'John?' he asked softly. 'Can you hear me?'

John stirred, blinking awake, surfacing as a swimmer would from a long dive. 'Good grief,' he muttered, trying to focus. 'What the hell just happened? I feel like I got hit by a lorry and dragged for half a mile.'

'John, _look!_' Sherlock held the violin up for viewing, clutching at John's shoulder in excitement. 'It's mended!'

John blinked a few more times. 'So it is. How'd that happen then?'

Sherlock beamed. 'Magic!'

John nodded blearily. 'You found a spell that worked?'

Sherlock somehow managed to roll his eyes in an overjoyed fashion. 'Not me, idiot, _you_! You worked magic and mended it!'

_That _brought John fully awake. He raised his head up to look at Sherlock fully. 'What the – Sherlock, don't talk daft. You're the magician.'

'I am,' Sherlock agreed. 'But it's as I told you: nearly everyone in the world has some degree of magical ability, it's just that most never learn about it, never learn to use it. You've been living in a magical place for weeks, having spells worked on you, learning about magic, tending to the featherbed –' Raghnaid squawked indignantly at him, having learned from Mrs Hudson what _that_ word meant '– and generally undergoing a crash course in magic. So what ability you have has woken up, for want of a better term.'

John's face had gone very pale. 'You're joking.'

Sherlock ran affectionate hands over his mended violin, disregarding John's pallor. 'No, certainly not. How did you do it, by the way?'

'I did _not _– hang on, I was listening to your story, about your mother, and I just remember feeling bad about the violin getting smashed, and just _wishing_ that we hadn't broken it – and that's the last thing I remember, wishing...' John dropped his head back onto the arm of the sofa. 'Oh, bloody hell.'

Sherlock nodded. 'It's not uncommon for novice magic-handlers to make things happen through sheer force of will. I used to make things explode or heat up when I was younger if I lost my temper – Mycroft would tease me in the kitchen to save Mrs Hudson having to cook breakfast.' He snorted indignantly at the memory before continuing. 'You'll learn control as you get used to it – that's why you passed out, it was a large working for a novice and of course you're not used to channelling power. It took a lot out of you, but some rest will help that. I wonder what your magic centres around? Mending my violin suggests an aptitude for healing magic – repairing, fixing, things of that nature...'

Sherlock trailed off as he admired the Stradivarius – there was not even a mark on it to indicate it had ever been damaged. He remembered how, when John had been patching up his feet, his hands had felt unnaturally hot – in retrospect, a sure indication that magic was, if not at work, then lurking in his friend, waiting to manifest itself.

'Sherlock, what's happening to me?'

The soft and apprehensive question made Sherlock look sharply round at John, who was gazing at him pensively.

'I just explained to you,' Sherlock began, but John shook his head a little.

'This isn't – this isn't _me_, Sherlock. This isn't who I am,' John said, voice very flat. 'I'm an ordinary bloke, I like rugby and going to the pub and working a steady job. I'm not someone who can mend violins just by wanting them to be mended. I'm not a magician, I'm – I'm just _me._'

Sherlock stared at him for an iota, before reaching out and stroking John's hair again. John offered no resistance to the caress, and, emboldened, Sherlock spoke. 'This is you, John – it's a part of you. It's not some strange alien thing, it's a hidden talent if you like. You mustn't be frightened.'

'I know nothing whatsoever about it! How can I not be frightened?' John protested. 'What if I hurt someone?'

'You won't.' Sherlock said that with utter surety. 'Because...'

John looked at him wearily as he trailed off. 'Because?'

Sherlock looked a little shaken, and John immediately feared the worst – what if whatever he could do _was _malevolent? But Sherlock's hand never stilled in its gentle smoothing of his hair, and John leaned his head against Sherlock's palm, finding the motion ludicrously soothing.

'Because of something Mama said,' Sherlock replied at last, into the stillness of the living room. 'She once told me that the truest magicks were neither good nor bad, but – magic is both because nature itself is both, loving and brutal. The only good or evil lies in the heart of the one working the magic, and that's why you needn't fear. You wanted to do good, and that's what you did.'

John lay thoughtfully, regarding Sherlock's expression, which for once was equally thoughtful, devoid of his usual arrogance or impatience. Sherlock for his part scrutinised John carefully, perceiving that reassurance was still needed.

'Besides, you're my friend, John. I'll help you. I won't let anything happen to you,' Sherlock said before he had fully considered what it was he was saying. It made John's blue eyes widen in surprise.

'You just called me your friend, you know,' he said, startled.

Sherlock's hand stilled. 'Was that the wrong word?'

John smiled. 'No, it was very much the right one. You are my friend, Sherlock. I never would have thought it possible, but you are.'

Sherlock was not quite sure how to respond to that, but John did not seem to feel the need for further conversation. They stayed like that for a few moments, John lying quietly, Sherlock's hand resuming its motion across his hair. Raghnaid laid her head on John's legs, heaving a quiet sigh, and one of John's hands reached down to touch her gently.

'So, do I get to hear you play?' John asked suddenly. Sherlock glanced down at him. The other man looked exhausted, but at least some colour had come back into his face. Sherlock nodded to him, and jumped up to fetch the bow from beside the hearth, where it had been left lying ever since John's first day in the mansion.

He drew it experimentally across the strings, unsurprised to find the instrument perfectly in tune – John had done a good job on it. He flicked a quick glance at the clock, realising in dismay that he only had a little over ten minutes in which to remain human. He would either have to leave in short order, or else...

Deliberately, he started playing something vaguely Celtic, soothing and lulling, keeping a close eye on John all the while. John's own eyes were already drifting slowly shut, and Sherlock played with all the lightness and softness he could muster, and as the lament wound its way through the air, it did its work.

Sherlock ceased his playing, and gazed at John. The man was deeply asleep, fatigue having combined with the music to lull him into the arms of Morpheus. Smiling a little, Sherlock went to place the violin and bow carefully on the sideboard. He would fetch a blanket for John in a moment; his friend could sleep here tonight comfortably enough. John would have to rest tomorrow, which meant a break in their research, but that could be endured without difficulty.

His friend... so much for rationality, for keeping a clear mind at all times. But Sherlock could not bring himself to regret what he had said. They _were _friends, of course they were, Sherlock had merely put a name to it. The pleasant bickering, the working together, the adventure with Raghnaid, the strange liking and respect they had each conceived for the other... friendship was the only term Sherlock could think of that did what connected them full justice.

He refused to analyse what lay beyond that. For both their sakes.

Besides, Sherlock had a friend now, and he didn't want to jeopardise that by voicing his strange feelings and perhaps angering or startling John. He had never had a friend before. Oh, he supposed Victor Trevor might be counted as one, but the mild, boyish Victor had always been more of a devoted attendant than an equal. Sherlock imagined trying to order John about as he had done Victor and grinned. John would probably end by hurling something at his head and announcing he was starting a slave rebellion.

The clock struck eleven, and Sherlock knew his time as a man was up. He looked one last time at John, slumbering peacefully, and at Raghnaid, still lying with her head across John's legs, looking decidedly drowsy herself. He would go and fetch the blankets now, and then return to watch over John again. He would have to leave before his friend awoke, but that was easily done.

With that in mind, he went to the door and reached for the door handle – and froze, in unmitigated shock.

The limb that was outstretched was not the deformed paw and claws of his monstrous form. It was still human.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Sorry, W L Chastain, but 'Gladstone' never occurred to me as a name for the griffin! 'Raghnaid' is an old Scottish name which means, roughly, 'battle wisdom.'

So, John's a magician... I agonized over this plot twist, as John's role is often to provide a counterpoint to Sherlock's wildness and eccentricity by being ordinary and practical. It nearly got cut out, but I so wanted John to have his own journey in my story, and he's going to struggle with the concept of possessing such power. I'll say no more for now, but please offer constructive criticism!

And yes, I'm cruel and cold, but I do so love a good cliffhanger! What's happened? Well, you'll have to wait and find out!


	15. Chapter 15

Hi all! Thanks as always to my lovely reviewers, especially for getting me past the 60 mark. A short chapter today, but one that will hopefully resolve my last cliffhanger - though I love them so much, I may throw a few more in... So, where were we?

* * *

How long Sherlock stood there, frozen, he could never tell afterwards. But it must only have been moments, despite seeming far, far longer. His quicksilver brain took in the sight of his still-human hand, he looked for the other – human, too – and both hands flew to his face. Chin, lips, nose, cheekbones, eyebrows, forehead, curling hair – all still present. What in the world...?

Had he miscalculated the time he had in which to remain human? Impossible, he was always so careful to keep track, especially around John! He simply didn't make mistakes like that! The curse was still upon him, he could feel it wrapped around him like a shroud, but for some reason it had not yet reasserted itself.

Sherlock was still standing stunned when the door opened and Mrs Hudson came pottering in. 'Hello, Sherlock, I've made some... oh, dear, I didn't realise John was that tired. Maybe you'd better take it easy tomorrow. I'll see if Raghnaid wants his cocoa –'

'Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock interrupted, having to force the words out, his tongue and vocal cords proving most uncooperative. 'You are _casting a shadow._'

'Don't be silly, Sherlock, you know that – oh, my.'

There were indeed two shadows climbing their way up the wall – one Sherlock's own tall one, black and sharply defined in the firelight, the other much smaller, faint and shaky in the light. But it was _there_, utterly unmistakeable.

'What the _bloody _hell –' came Mrs Hudson's voice, cutting off as she failed to think of an appropriate question to ask him. Strangely enough it was the mild profanity that brought Sherlock back to himself. Mrs Hudson was about to go on the warpath and he had better be ready for her.

Wasting no time, he took her elbow and sat her down in John's chair, flinging himself back down in his own. Raghnaid watched them curiously, realising something was going on, but she did not stir from John's side. Sherlock winked at her approvingly, and she winked back at him. Then he turned to Mrs Hudson.

'It's been longer than three hours – minutes longer, now,' he began without explanation, knowing she would understand. And then he told her rapidly all that had occurred that day, from the failed spell to John's unintentional magic working to realising he had a friend now. He wasn't altogether sure the friendship was relevant, but he knew Mrs Hudson would be pleased to hear it.

Mrs Hudson clapped her hands together as he finished his recital. 'Oh, Sherlock! This is wonderful! Didn't I tell you the answer didn't lie in books or research?'

Sherlock wasn't at all sure he _had _heard that phrase, at least not recently, but there were other, more pressing things to consider at present. 'What do you mean?' he asked, bemused. 'Maybe it was that spell this afternoon, maybe it worked better than I thought – ouch! What was _that _for?'

Mrs Hudson had risen and cuffed him lightly round the back of the head. 'You clot, Sherlock, of course it wasn't the perception spell that did this! _The answer lies in the eyes of another, _isn't that the best clue we've got? It's all about how John sees you, how you see each other. You're not his jailer in his mind anymore, you're a friend! It's weakened the curse because you're not a monster in his eyes! And he's not just a means to an end for you any longer, either.'

Sherlock gawped at her – or rather, her newly visible shadow. Then his eyes travelled over to the peacefully sleeping John, who looked much younger and more vulnerable when not awake. He felt glad Raghnaid was there with John, that he had allowed her to remain in the mansion. But the key to the curse's undoing being friendship, John's feelings towards him? Sherlock was sceptical.

But his mother had said...

'Mrs Hudson, what was it Mama used to say about hearts and magic?' he asked slowly. He seldom spoke of his mother to Mrs Hudson, because he knew she missed Violet terribly, and in a rare instance of consideration, didn't wish to upset her. But he needed to know what it was Mama had once told him.

'That the heart holds a magic beyond all understanding, a powerful magic,' Mrs Hudson answered, sounding wistful. 'Violet always did tend towards the over-dramatic, the same as you. But she's right. I think the way of breaking this curse isn't about what you see with your eyes, but what you see with what's in _here._' She tapped Sherlock's chest for emphasis.

Sherlock frowned. 'That makes no sense. Moriarty had – has – an even lower opinion of emotion than I do. He would never stoop to build an entire curse around it. For him, things like friendship are there to be exploited...'

He trailed off. And then – then, came one of those sudden flashes of insight that staggered him with their clarity and discernment.

Sherlock sank back in his chair, limp with understanding. 'That's _it_! He exploited – not my emotion, my _lack _of emotion! He knew I dislike it, that it clouds things, hinders my deductions when working. So he formulated a curse around the antithesis of everything I stand for, everything I believe in, knowing I would never turn to it for a solution. That's really quite brilliant.'

Mrs Hudson harrumphed in disdain. 'That's really quite horrible, you mean.'

Sherlock nodded feebly. 'For once I agree with you. The situation is even more hopeless than I realised. I'll never break this curse.'

There was a sharp intake of breath from Mrs Hudson. 'Don't say that, Sherlock! Why shouldn't you break it? You've weakened it already!'

Sherlock sighed deeply. 'Because to be able to break it would involve me changing my very nature beyond all recognition, to become something I am not. I am not a man of deep emotions – I believe I was diagnosed as something called a sociopath at university, which means that I disregard social convention, do not care about other people and have no conscience. Which is fine, but if it is necessary to summon and give into emotion to break this curse, I'll never manage it.'

Sherlock propped his head on one of his hands, a posture that drew his glance back over to John. All his work, preparation, everything he had done to John, taking him away from his home and taking his freedom, all of it for nothing. The curse might as well be Unbreakable, considering where the solution lay.

The only honourable thing to do now would be to let John go. If Sherlock could not break his curse, John's presence here was immaterial.

Sherlock gritted his teeth as actual physical pain sliced through his middle as that thought manifested itself. Everything within him was screaming '_no!' _at the thought of sending John home. But what else could he do?

'Sherlock Holmes!' Mrs Hudson rapped out, for once a merciful distraction.

He looked up at her, or where he thought she was.

'You are behaving very foolishly and weakly,' she informed him with some bite. 'The young man I know, or used to know, would never have given up on finding the solution to a curse just because it happened to be difficult. You've made a good start tonight, just give it some time and it will all work out. Besides, if you give up you're admitting you have no faith in John, not just yourself. He deserves better than that from you!'

Sherlock groaned inwardly. Mrs Hudson always managed to make him feel five years old again, caught sneaking chocolate biscuits out of the kitchen – her little charms had always caught him out. It didn't help that when she did lecture she invariably managed to construct exceedingly strong arguments to support her viewpoint. In other words, she was always right.

Besides, her comment about him lacking faith in John stung, he was not quite sure why, but it did. Perhaps that was part of having a friend. Besides, if he acted as if the curse were breakable, then it would justify John's remaining here.

'Very well,' he grumbled, glancing up at her – from the posture of her shadow she had her hands on her hips, and he could just visualise her exasperated expression. It made Sherlock forget he had intended to be sulky, and he smirked. 'Then John and I will carry on with... whatever this is. I do believe in him, whatever you might think.'

'I never thought anything else, dear,' Mrs Hudson answered happily, causing Sherlock to stare at her and then sigh in exasperation at her sudden changes in temper. And the woman had the nerve to call _him _moody!

The clock stuck midnight just then, and Sherlock watched unwillingly as his hands and feet grew claws and fur again. His reprieve was over, but at least he knew now how long he had to be human in future. Breaking the curse was going to be a gradual process, rather than finding some solution that would solve everything in an instant.

More time with John, then. Which was no bad thing.

'Would you like me to fetch you anything, dear?' Mrs Hudson asked, breaking into his thoughts.

Sherlock considered. 'Just blankets for John, Mrs Hudson. I'll stay here tonight and keep an eye on him.'

'All right, my dear,' Mrs Hudson answered, before heading to the door. 'Let me know if you want company, I won't sleep a wink tonight, I'm certain! I want to spend some time admiring my shadow...'

She headed off down the corridor to the hall, leaving Sherlock to curl up in his chair and look over at his sleeping friend. _We have a task of mammoth proportions on our hands, John, _he thought wryly. _I hope that stubborn nature of yours is up to the task._

Abruptly, he felt as weary as John obviously was. He hitched his knees up and laid his head on them, shutting his eyes. A moment's rest and he'd be off... no, he wouldn't. Sherlock would stay here and watch over John, just in case.

Just because.

* * *

It was the darkest hour of the night, the one before the dawn, when John awoke briefly. The fire was burning low, shedding red light over the already scarlet room, but it was a jewel-tone red, like rubies, not at all like blood. He was still lying on the sofa, but someone had thrown a blanket over him.

John looked over to the fireplace, saw Raghnaid curled up on the rug, and saw something hunched up in Sherlock's chair. No, not something, someone – Sherlock, in beast form, head resting on his knees and long arms wrapped around his legs. His eyes were shut and he was asleep.

John watched him for a minute, watching the almost-peaceful expression on the monstrous visage, before closing his eyes and drifting back to his own deep slumber.

* * *

And so the solution comes a step closer! I'll post more soon, though I must warn you that my updates may be a bit more sporadic during December - a combination of Christmas and extra shifts at work means I don't have as much time to devote to Sherlock and John, sadly. But please keep reading and reviewing, I love getting them!


	16. Chapter 16

Hi everyone! Right, a nice long chapter... er, well, it's long anyway. Brace yourselves, Sherlock does something stupid...

* * *

It was the wren singing on the windowsill that awoke John at last. He sat up slowly, wondering how the heck such a tiny bird could make such a huge noise. He still felt drained, tired, but he was at least clear-headed. He shifted on the sofa, clutching at the blanket that had been draped over him. Raghnaid was still snoozing on the rug, but there was no sign of Sherlock – John supposed he must have left sometime after he had awakened for a few moments.

The light streaming in at the windows was strong and bright, the light of mid-morning rather than the uncertain semi-light of near-dawn, and John knew he must have slept for hours past his usual getting up time. Stretching, he wondered if he could summon enough energy to climb the stairs to his room and get cleaned up. If this was what working magic did to you, he had to hand it to Mrs Hudson and Sherlock, they must have more stamina than Pheidippides.

Magic... John shivered despite the warmth of the sun and the comforting blanket. He found the concept impossible to reconcile with his image of himself, as an ordinary, not-overly-interesting, dependable individual – albeit with some thrill-seeking, adventurous tendencies, hence joining the army. But magic? That was a level of adventure he had scarcely realised existed until he came here. And him, a magician?

Just plain daft. Maybe what happened last night had been a one-off, maybe some of Sherlock's magic had spilled over into him or perhaps it had been residue from that perception spell.

John sighed. He really was a terrible liar, he couldn't even lie to himself. He had done s_omething _last night – he had felt something _pulled_ from him as he had stood holding the damaged violin. He wasn't too sure he wanted to think about the implications, but it would have to be dealt with sooner or later. Perhaps when he wasn't feeling so exhausted...

His thoughts turned to the middle of the night, when he had seen Sherlock asleep in the chair. At least his housemate didn't seem to have deduced that John had discovered his secret. John couldn't lie very well, but he thought of his feigning ignorance about _that_ not as lying, exactly, just not letting on that he knew something he wasn't meant to, which was just good manners really.

Needless to say John had decided against telling Sherlock he had found out, for a variety of reasons. Firstly it was Sherlock's secret to tell and the other man obviously didn't want to share it. Secondly, John had guessed that whatever strange force had prompted his discovery didn't want him blabbing to Sherlock or Mrs Hudson. Three, he wasn't sure what such a revelation would do to Sherlock. It sounded a funny thing to worry about, given everything that had occurred, but John didn't want to hurt the other man, didn't want to shame or humiliate him in some way. It was lucky Sherlock had lost interest in questioning John about the night they had found Raghnaid, as otherwise John would have given the game away for sure.

Still, the 'servant' no longer frightened him, not now he was getting to know the man underneath the ugliness. Sherlock _was _his friend; that was no lie or equivocation. An exasperating, gifted, temperamental, maddening friend and the time they could spend together each day was just too short. And Sherlock's evident protectiveness towards him warmed John's heart. He could still feel the touch of Sherlock's hand on his hair, doing his best to reassure him.

John smiled at the memory. The unfeeling bastard he had first met had a heart after all. He wondered how he had gotten the man so wrong – still, they hadn't exactly encountered each other under the best of circumstances first time round. Maybe they were both guilty of misjudging each other.

Maybe they had even misjudged themselves. Think of it – John Watson, MD, army captain and magician. He wondered what Lestrade would say to _that_.

Greg... John's smile died away. It was a little shaming to realise that he had not really thought about Greg and Molly and Harry very much for a few days. He had been preoccupied with Raghnaid and making sure Sherlock and Mrs Hudson didn't guess about his big discovery. Besides which he was... happy, really.

This thought occurred to John with a little _frisson _of shock. He had anticipated a prison and a cruel keeper when he first agreed to stay here. Not a funny little makeshift family comprised of an infuriating genius, a mythical beast and an invisible housekeeper.

But he had left behind a life and family of his own when he came to the mansion. A quiet, unimportant life, and not much family – just him and Harry really – but they had been _his_. His to live, his to look after. He wondered what Greg was doing, if the DI was searching for him, if Harry had taken his disappearance hard. John hoped to God it hadn't exacerbated her alcoholism – at least the sporadic contact he had maintained with his sister kept her from the worst sort of excess.

John was jolted from those melancholy thoughts by the arrival of Mrs Hudson. 'Good morning, dears!' she called, coming through the door as loudly as ever. Raghnaid woke with a whistle of surprise, before going to nuzzle against Mrs Hudson in greeting and singing a few notes.

'It's a _very _good morning, Raghnaid,' Mrs Hudson replied, and John could tell by her voice she was smiling. 'Hello, John, I let you sleep in after your little adventure last night. You must have a quiet day today, that'll set you to rights.'

John smiled at her, though he still felt downcast at thinking of Greg and Harry and everyone – people he had cared about and probably would never see again. But he didn't want to spoil her evident cheerfulness.

'I've made sausages and bacon for breakfast, just a little celebration,' Mrs Hudson continued contentedly. 'And John – do you notice something different about me?'

John pretended to look her over, not really taking the question seriously. 'New shoes, Mrs Hudson?' he asked jokingly.

'Really, young man! Tell me, since when have I had a shadow?'

John stared, and then felt a real smile stretching at the corners of his mouth. 'Since _never_! It looks – great, I suppose. When did that happen?'

'Last night, dear! I'll let Sherlock explain matters when he comes down later, he'll be cross if I beat him to it, but suffice it to say your curse-breaking efforts are finally bearing fruit. The curse was weakened last night, my invisibility isn't quite as strong as it was, and Sherlock's going to be able to spend more time with you in future.'

John contemplated the prospect of more Sherlock. They'd probably either fall in love or end up killing each other, he reflected humorously. As it was, they either worked wonderfully well together or argued like fury. But there was no denying they had fun.

'Well, I'm glad to know the research is paying off,' he said at last, and then jumped as he was cuffed around the back of the head.

'You're as bad as Sherlock!' Mrs Hudson informed him decidedly. 'I'll let him tell you why. In the meantime, come along to the kitchen and have breakfast. Sherlock will be down later, he's catching up on sleep. He stayed with you until dawn.'

John just stopped himself from saying 'I know.' Instead he said 'that was nice of him,' in a casual fashion. And then: 'why'd he do that?'

'I expect he wanted to, dear,' Mrs Hudson answered as she made her way over to the door.

* * *

Sherlock slept the day away in his beast form, wakening in late afternoon and hurrying to turn human and join John in... whatever he was doing. Which in this particular instance was sitting outside reading, or trying to read, and in reality dozing off every few minutes, at least until Sherlock threw himself down beside him on the wooden bench and startled him awake.

'What're you reading? _Frankenstein_? Boring. Is this all you do when we're not working?'

'There's only so many times I can get lost in the maze,' John retorted, marking his page and setting the book aside. 'And I haven't the energy for exploring the pocket dimensions today. You ought to try reading a good book, it might stop you being so bored all the time.'

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. 'Irrelevant. I prefer to save my brain space for information needed in my work. Cluttering it up with fiction and fancy would be a terrible abuse of my intellect.'

'Yes, terrible,' John replied in the dry tone that meant he thought Sherlock was being ludicrously arrogant and needed taking down a peg or two. 'God forbid you should actually learn something out of something that was imagined, that's only a story.'

'You _learn _stuff out of those?' Sherlock asked incredulously. 'What on earth is it like in your funny little brain?'

John heaved a heavy sigh. 'Currently it's quite violent, Sherlock. Come on, what are you after? You're dreadful at small talk.'

'Mrs Hudson told you about the curse weakening, I presume?' Sherlock asked, and John nodded. 'Well, she is of the opinion that it was not any of the work or research we have performed that has reduced its strength. She thinks the answer lies in the way we perceive each other.'

'_In the eyes of another..._ Of course!' John realised. 'It's the way we look at one another that's caused it – or the way we've started to look at one another anyway. I thought – well, I thought you were a complete bastard when I first came here. You still are sometimes, but I've learned to live with it. You have your moments of being almost human.'

Sherlock started at John's choice of words, and then huffed, disgruntled that John had cottoned on to the theory with such apparent ease – he'd been looking forward to doing one of his little lectures on magic and so forth. 'Yes, well, I think we've hit a snag,' he continued grumpily. 'If the theory is correct, then emotion is the key to undoing this curse and I don't _do _emotion. It will be a very difficult curse to end.'

'No it won't, Sherlock,' John said cheerily. 'And you _definitely_ do emotion, you sulk all the time. You're doing it now, look.'

'Am not,' Sherlock snapped, pouting. John grinned and Sherlock scowled – he evidently wasn't going to win this argument. 'Well, I don't do things like sentiment and getting attached to people and – and – _love_. Hideous thought.'

'What makes you think we'll need that sort of stuff to break the curse?' John asked reasonably. 'I'm guessing it was you and me deciding that we're friends that weakened the curse. Well, friendship doesn't need to be soppy or overly emotional. It can be whatever we make of it, and in all honesty we'll probably make a bloody mess of it at times. But we'll manage.'

Sherlock glanced over at his companion, who was watching him keenly. Loath as he was to admit to ignorance, John should know what he was letting himself in for. 'I know nothing of friendship,' he confessed. 'I had – well, not exactly a friend when I was at university. His name was Victor, and he had very little will-power or backbone. I used to order him about with ease – he was my devotee, if you like.'

Sherlock turned his gaze back to the mansion's vast gardens. 'But there was no one else. How can I break this curse if I know nothing of what the solution centres around?'

'Sherlock, of course you know something about friendship – you've got Mrs Hudson and Raghnaid, and me. You're not on your own, not by any means,' John informed him. 'Besides, I'm not such an expert at it myself. We'll learn together, if you like.'

Sherlock looked back at John in surprise. 'Learn together? But what about – about the people you came to the mansion with? Surely you know more about friendship than I do. You must have friends out in the world.'

John's face lost its smile and he turned away from Sherlock, but not before the other man caught sight of the sadness and longing on John's expressive countenance. Sherlock kicked himself mentally, yet another novel experience brought on by John Watson, but before he could say anything else, John spoke.

'I did have friends out there, yes. I suppose you might count Greg and one or two others as my friends. Definitely _not _Anderson –', trace of humour in the voice there, Sherlock was relieved to note, '– but there aren't many I'd term friends. Not the kind that – that if you showed up in the middle of the night with a dead body in the boot of your car, would just grab a spade and follow you. Not the deepest kind of friendship. And you were right that first evening. I live alone, I have no partner, so I'm not the biggest expert on love, either.'

There was a long but not uncomfortable silence after this statement. Sherlock studied John's face, and the other man looked out at the garden, blushing slightly at the scrutiny.

'I like that description of friendship,' Sherlock announced after a while.

'You would,' John muttered. 'Try and avoid showing up with dead bodies, at least on days when I want to strangle you. Which would be every day.'

Sherlock huffed and turned to watch Raghnaid, who was running across the lawn, leaping into the air at intervals, apparently snapping at nothing with her sharp beak. Her injured wing still trailed on the ground, but didn't seem to bother her overmuch. 'What _is _she doing?' he asked of no-one in particular.

'Chasing bumblebees,' John said absently, turning back to his book. 'She does the same whenever the weather's fine.'

'Ridiculous animal,' Sherlock opined loudly enough for Raghnaid to hear. She ignored him and went dashing after a particularly fat bee that was droning along placidly. Sherlock watched her for a little longer, before turning to study John again, who was absorbed in his book. Sherlock fidgeted, feeling uncharacteristically nervous, uncertain of how to phrase what he wanted to ask.

'How do we – how do we become – how does friendship become _deep_? How do we make it stronger?' he managed finally. John did not look up from his book, rather to Sherlock's annoyance.

'No idea,' John answered casually. 'There's no set rules to friendship and liking, Sherlock, it happens or it doesn't. But don't worry, I think it will happen with us. Look at how far we've come since I arrived.'

'I still think you're a romantic idealist with a hero complex, though,' Sherlock stated frankly. John only chuckled in response. They sat there for a little longer, Sherlock alternately watching John and watching Raghnaid, John reading until the words blurred on the page and he felt his eyelids drifting shut.

'What comes after friendship?' Sherlock asked into the quiet afternoon. John jerked awake, the book falling from his startled hands.

'What do you mean?' John asked resignedly, picking the book up and trying to smooth some bent pages.

'Well, is there something stronger than friendship? Something even more emotional?' Sherlock asked, genuinely interested. John sighed deeply.

'Sherlock, you can't quantify emotions in that way,' he explained with exaggerated patience. 'Friendship can be used to describe a couple of people who go out for a drink now and then, or it could mean two people who, if the chips were down, would die or kill for one another, no questions asked. Giving something a particular name doesn't necessarily mean it's better or stronger than something else.'

'It's all very illogical,' Sherlock grumbled.

'Most people are very illogical, Sherlock, you'll find that out when you break the curse and go back to the world,' John said softly. His blue eyes looked dreamy, unfocused, and Sherlock's innards began writhing and squirming in the way that meant _danger! _

So of course he metaphorically jumped in with both feet. At the deep end. From a very high cliff.

'What about love?' he asked curiously, trying to get his insides to behave as he did so. They didn't comply.

'What about it?' John asked, laying his book aside as a lost cause for the afternoon.

'Well – is it stronger than friendship?' Sherlock asked hesitantly. John laughed, and Sherlock frowned – he hadn't seen anything funny in his question. 'This is strictly academic, of course,' he snapped, irritated.

'You really _don't _know about love, do you?' John asked him wryly, clearly not expecting a response. 'Well, I'll tell you something right off, Sherlock. You can't lump all of love under one description and expect all of it to look and feel like that. Love – it's like – like the sky. It changes all the time, everyone's sky is a little different, they see different parts of it, but it's _always _there. Real love is like that – it's never the same from one person to the next, sometimes it changes, but you can't destroy it or take it away, not if the people doing the loving really want it.'

Sherlock's insides had stilled, but his heart, until that point a well-behaved organ, was doing mad things inside his chest, jumping and thudding and hurling itself at his rib cage. He pressed a hand to his chest to still it, glancing at John for fear the other man might have noticed, but John was lost in reverie.

'Besides, there's all different kinds of love around. Think of people you love – Mrs Hudson, maybe even your brother. What you feel for each of them is different, isn't it? And they're different again from what you felt for your mother when she was here. And all of that will be very different again from what you might feel for a friend, or if you experience romantic love.' John finished his little speech, and then flushed again as he saw Sherlock's rapt attention. Sherlock's heart gave a particularly painful thump at the sight.

'How can I tell?' Sherlock asked, voice even deeper than usual. 'How can I tell what sort of love I'm feeling – assuming I want to feel it?' He wasn't sure _what _he was feeling at present, aside from a possible undiagnosed heart condition.

'Sorry, can't help there,' John replied with deliberate flippancy. 'You'll have to work it out for yourself Sherlock – you're the self-proclaimed genius. Besides, it's not a question of _wanting_. From what I know of love, it has a will of its own.'

He raised his eyes as he finished speaking, and ice blue met deep blue. Their gazes held for a few moments, as something almost seemed to pulse between them, with fierce and compelling energy. Sherlock could have sworn the air between them shimmered for an instant.

And then John dropped his eyes to the bench between them, before turning back to look at Raghnaid, who had left off chasing bumblebees and was staring at them, head tilted to one side in curiosity.

Sherlock looked at John, sitting suddenly pale and blank-faced next to him and realised that he would learn no more about love today. He would bide his time and think about what John had told him. He stood and stretched, before holding a long-fingered hand out to John.

'Come on,' he said, inwardly relieved to find his heart had settled down somewhat. 'Let's go inside and see what the library has to say about love and friendship. Even if the solution to the curse is not to be found in books, they may still yield some useful information.'

John did not move. Sherlock waited, at first impatiently, and then with nervousness beginning to gnaw at his middle – what was John waiting for? Why wasn't he looking at Sherlock? But eventually John reached to take his hand, and Sherlock helped him up, each smiling quickly at the other, before trudging back to the mansion, Raghnaid gambolling after them, snapping at a stray bee as she went.

* * *

A couple of hours spent in the library served only to confirm that love did not come under the sway of magic – love could not be created by magic, though it had the power to undo spells and curses. Most intriguingly as far as Sherlock was concerned, was the revelation that love, true love, powerful and unerring, could actually render a magician more powerful than prior to their loving or being loved. Love, it seemed, could unlock hidden magical abilities, or confer new ones.

In order to acquire such power, the love had to be natural and uncompelled. Actual love spells were non-existent, with magic only able to conjure feelings of infatuation or obsession. True love could not be forced, only faked.

'Rowling got that right, then,' John murmured as he read that passage in one of Sherlock's books.

'Who?' Sherlock had asked, and there had followed an awkward ten minutes as John attempted to explain about teenage wizards, popular culture and various details from the _Harry Potter _books, which he'd borrowed from Molly on quiet nights in the mortuary. Sherlock was not impressed, though he liked the idea of having a phoenix as a pet.

'You've already got Raghnaid, I am _not _helping you get a phoenix as well! Not if they go on fire on a regular basis,' John announced finally, before sitting back and looking stunned. 'Oh Christ, I'm telling my housemate he can't have a magic bird for company, I'm officially down the rabbit hole.'

The explanations about _Alice in Wonderland _took even longer and were even less successful. John, after trying for the fifth time to explain about punctuality-obsessed rabbits, finally put his foot down and told Sherlock they could either call it a day or he'd resort to gratuitous violence. As he was looking fairly murderous by that point, Sherlock decided discretion was the better part of valour.

So they retired to the sitting room as usual, Sherlock pondering love and friendship again and keeping an eye on his companion, who was still worn out – he had nearly wandered half-asleep through a glass door when entering the mansion. John was just letting his thoughts drift, a comfortable silence reigning over the mansion. Mrs Hudson came in and checked on them, lingering a little before the fire to look again at her shadow, before leaving them to it. Raghnaid settled herself in her usual spot on the rug, and Sherlock propped his feet up on her.

Everything was as it should be in the mansion, which was perhaps why John's thoughts turned yet again to his sister and friends, even his little flat. The not-knowing was the worst of it – not knowing if Harry had crawled back into a bottle, not knowing if Greg and Molly were holding up okay. He wished he could send Greg a message somehow, let everyone know he was all right. More than all right.

'You look sad,' Sherlock said bluntly after a reasonable interval, irked by John's evident melancholy. 'Why?'

John sighed. 'I was thinking about my sister,' he answered quietly. 'And about Greg and Molly. I hate not knowing if they're all right.'

Sherlock shifted a little uncomfortably in his chair. 'They'll be fine,' he said decidedly. 'My servant sent your friends home safely, nothing untoward will have happened. That was the deal.'

'I know they were sent home,' John answered rather gloomily. 'But I worry about them – and about my sister. None of them know what's become of me, they just know I'm missing. That's the worst of it – the not knowing what's become of someone. Greg's dealt with a few missing people cases, and he hates them. Murders are almost easier in a way, because then the people who loved the dead person _know _– know what's happened and can try and deal with it. But with a missing person, there's no closure.'

Sherlock stared at him, a rather guilty expression on his face. 'My brother will never have learned what became of me, either,' he said slowly. 'I never really considered things from his viewpoint – I was just relieved he had escaped the curse and that I wasn't locked up with him – we'd have driven each other crazy within weeks. But he has gone five years without learning what has become of myself or Mrs Hudson, or at least I presume he has learned nothing given I have had no word or sign from him in the interval. Mycroft is an insufferable bore, but I know he will be missing us.'

John looked over at Sherlock, who was looking rather stricken by this point. 'You never considered what it must have done to your brother, your only family from what I know, to suddenly lose his home and his only relative? Just how self-centred _are _you, Sherlock?'

The last question was spoken mildly enough, but John was obviously appalled by Sherlock's lack of consideration, and Sherlock's newly awakened conscience was stung by John's remonstrance. 'I am a selfish individual, you should be aware of that by now!' he sneered, jumping up from his seat to pace the length of the room. 'You talk and preach at me about morality and caring and other jibberish, when I don't understand and honestly don't care! I hadn't considered my brother's feelings in all this, so what? Will that do any practical good?'

'No, it won't,' John answered, voice still gentle, irritating Sherlock still further – couldn't the man get worked up and shout back at him? Why did he insist on being so calm and reasonable? It was _infuriating_.

'But thinking of your brother and how worried he must be for you isn't a weakness, Sherlock, it just means you love him, just as brothers should,' John carried on. Sherlock spun away from him in anger, feeling his resentment grow. It reminded him of John's assessment of him when they first met, when he had found Sherlock so lacking in admirable qualities. 'It's a reminder of why you're doing this, so you can see him again. It just shows you're human,' John finished at last.

'I don't want to be human!' Sherlock almost shouted. He froze in terror a second later, for fear some dark power might have been listening and decided his wish should be granted. More than one careless magician had been caught out because ears had heard that should not have been listening. Had he not been so caught up in his anger and fear, he might have noticed John shrinking back into his seat in sudden alarm.

The moment passed without incident, but Sherlock, almost totally unstrung by his reckless words and what might have followed them, turned on John, fear numbing his affection towards the other man. 'And I don't _want _you trying to make me into something I'm not! I don't care about the people in this world, and not about your damn friends! They'll have written you off as dead and gone with any luck, so you're as alone as I am in this miserable life. Get used to it.'

John's face showed his shock only for a moment, and then something flickered and died in those expressive blue eyes, leaving him cold and impassive. Without a word, he got up and left the room, leaving Sherlock and Raghnaid staring after him.

Raghnaid hissed at Sherlock and nipped his ankle painfully, making her feelings quite clear. Sherlock's anger at the griffin, John and the world as a whole endured for another second or two, before its fire froze over and was replaced by an icy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He ran over to the door and went after John.

John had not wasted time, but had gone straight to his room. The door was shut fast, and when Sherlock tried the handle it was locked as well. 'John?' he called, subdued. 'John?'

There was no answer.

'John? John, answer me.'

Stillness from within the room.

'John?' Sherlock called again, growing really worried. 'Please, come out. I know I shouldn't have said it. Just answer me.' There was still no sound from John, and Sherlock began to contemplate one of his lock-picking spells.

'John?' he called one last time, detesting how helpless and ill-at-ease he felt.

'Go away, Sherlock,' John answered at last. His voice was flat and emotionless.

'John, come out,' Sherlock responded, relief coursing through him. 'I know it was a stupid thing to say, even if it is true.'

There was a pause before John replied. 'Just go, Sherlock. I want to be alone for a while.' His words were not unkind, but Sherlock recognised the steely tone underlying them, and realised that John would go to any lengths to keep him away tonight.

'I'll – I'll see you tomorrow then,' he said, moving away from the door. John didn't answer him, and after a long interval, Sherlock moved back to the door. He leaned in closely, taking care not to make the smallest susurration of carpet or clothing, and pressed his ear against the wood.

He heard nothing to begin with, but as he listened intently, he made out the heavy, hitching breathing of someone trying to stifle tears.

Sherlock jerked back as though the wood had scalded him. Staggering away from the door, he very nearly collided with Raghnaid, who had followed him up the stairs. She regarded him with all the imperious contempt a griffin could muster, which was a significant amount. She bobbed her head towards the main hallway, and Sherlock took the hint and backed up.

Raghnaid went to John's door and sang out a few notes, scratching gently at the wood. A few moments later the key turned in the lock and the door swung open. Raghnaid sang the spell to widen the doorway, and passed into John's room, dismissing Sherlock with a last scathing flick of her tail. The doorway shrank back to its usual proportions, the door shut and was locked again.

Sherlock simply stood for a long time, looking at the closed door, behind which was the man Sherlock had vowed to make happy, and instead had cut to the very heart with cruel, idiotic words. John had shunned Sherlock's company, only to admit Raghnaid instead. He needed comforting, but did not want Sherlock to offer it. And Sherlock had driven him to such misery he had cried. That, somehow, was the worst thing of all.

Standing in the corridor, alone, feeling as wretched as he had ever felt in his life, Sherlock suddenly realised that the similarities between himself and his nemesis, Moriarty, were deeper and more profound than he had ever been willing to admit.

In that instant, Sherlock hated himself so much he could taste it. He fisted his hands, relishing the pain of his nails digging into his palms.

What was the point in trying to break the curse, if he deserved his monstrous appearance, if it matched what lay within?

He stood there until the curse overwhelmed him again, and he trudged desolately back to his own chambers. He did not cry – he never cried – but for the first time in years realised that his tear ducts were there and capable of doing their job.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **oh, Sherlock, you idiot! Never mind him though... Pheidippides, hero of Greece, is the original marathon runner. According to legend, he ran from Marathon to Athens with news of a military victory (dropping dead immediately after delivering his message, poor guy). The modern day marathon takes its name from the story.

And I know I'm perhaps stretching credibility with Sherlock not realising that John knows his little secret, but as we all saw in _The Hounds of Baskerville_, John is capable of hiding things from Sherlock ('John! I need some, get me some!') and also that Sherlock himself misses quite a lot of rather obvious stuff ('Is that why you're calling yourself "Greg"?'). Thanks, Mr Gatiss! Besides, there are reasons for his not realising, which will be explained later... Till next time, dear readers!


	17. Chapter 17

Hello, dear readers! A short chapter today, just to keep things moving... but be warned, there may be another cliffhanger impending...

* * *

John woke just as the night light was fading from black to grey. He was leaning against Raghnaid, who was curled up around him, both of them resting on the rug before his small fireplace. He had welcomed her last night, when, sunk in misery over all the people he had lost, she had come to him and offered what comfort she could.

They had wound up, with John holding Raghnaid around her neck and her nuzzling close against him, on the floor as Raghnaid was too big for John's bed. John had shed a few tears into the thick ruff of feathers on her neck, and Raghnaid had nibbled at his shirt cuff until John rubbed the back of her head, her favourite tickling spot.

'At least I have family, though I can't ever see them,' John had murmured to her. 'I know you've lost everyone, and I'm sorry for it.'

Raghnaid had pressed against him as though she understood, and gradually she had nodded off as they lay there before the fire. John had remained awake for a long time, homesickness running rampant in him, but also disappointment cutting deep enough that John felt it might actually draw blood. He had taken Sherlock at his word that they were friends, but the man's unkindness spoke for itself.

Perhaps he had been right all along about Sherlock. Maybe he was merely a monster masquerading as human.

At last, worn out by unhappiness, John had fallen asleep where he and Raghnaid lay huddled up, and dreamed of Sherlock for the first time in weeks.

In his dream, the infuriating man was kneeling, long arms folded around him, keeled over as though in pain. John stepped towards him, and Sherlock looked up at the sound, eyes red and bloodshot from weeping. They stayed like that for a long moment, until Sherlock staggered to his feet and ran away from John, who just stood and watched him go. And then he woke.

John lay against Raghnaid's bulk for a little time after awakening, thinking. Thinking of the previous afternoon, when he had told Sherlock everything he knew of love and friendship. Not much, really, but more than Sherlock knew. Thinking of that moment when their eyes had met. John had felt a physical reaction – partly dazed, as he would have been by a blow to the head, and partly shivery. Not from cold, but from anticipation. His body had felt as though something was about to happen, something that caused stabs of pleasure in a part of his body a long way from his eyes.

Talk about disconcerting. Never, in all his life, had John had a physical response like that towards another man. His sexual interests had been purely female, but the sheer energy and force of Sherlock's gaze had his thighs and everything that lay between them twitching. It had unnerved him to the point that he had been unable to meet Sherlock's gaze for a full hour and needed to force himself to take the other man's hand, which had caused his palm to tingle as if electricity were running through it.

Perhaps it had been.

John had been at a loss to explain it – he was boringly, completely straight as far as he was aware. The thought of Lestrade as a sexual partner, for instance, left him totally unexcited. Yet as he and Sherlock had walked back to the mansion the previous afternoon, John had pictured Sherlock shirtless and nearly walked headlong into an unopened door in his confusion. Thank God he had been able to blame his lingering tiredness from his magical violin repairs.

Fortunately, research into love spells and other related magic took his mind away from sexual matters for the rest of the afternoon. And then had come Sherlock's brutal words on John's friends giving him up for dead...

_Oh, Harry, Greg, everyone, I'm sorry. Please be all right._

John sighed as his thoughts yet again dwelled on Sherlock. What now for them both?

At least the other man had expressed a little remorse over what he had said. John had been too angry and bitter to listen last night, but Sherlock had sounded regretful. He wondered if Sherlock's regret was sincere or if it were a calculated ploy intended to pacify him. Sherlock was a fine actor – never a break in character as the master of the mansion, never a hint that he and the 'servant' were one and the same.

John stroked Raghnaid as the griffin shifted in her sleep. _I don't want to be human_, Sherlock had yelled. He had no idea just how those words had frightened John. What was Sherlock seeking, if not a way to restore his humanity? Was his desire for freedom really just a desire to thwart this Moriarty, to prove his own superiority?

John had grown to have real affection for Sherlock over the past few weeks. What if the man he had thought was his friend was nothing more than a mirage?

Unbidden, the image of Sherlock from his dream returned to him, pain-wracked and red-eyed from weeping. John gently disentangled himself from Raghnaid, and went to unlock his bedroom door. He would go and see Sherlock and have it out with him. It was the only path he could think of following now. Ignoring the whole mess – catastrophe, more like – would do him no good at all.

John rounded the first corner on his way to the living room and was halted by the sight of Sherlock standing there motionless, a flesh-and-blood statue. He must have been waiting for John to finally leave his room. Sherlock looked awful – there were dark circles under his eyes and he was hunched over with weariness. He had not been weeping as far as John could tell, but his eyes were reddened.

John hesitated. 'Did you sleep at all last night?' he asked finally, and immediately cursed himself for an idiot – he was meant to be chastising the man, not enquiring into his welfare. Sherlock's impassive face softened a little.

'I didn't,' he answered, and then, before John could collect his wits: 'I know a way you can see your friends and family.'

'What?' John stammered out, bewildered.

'I mean that you'll be able to see them but they won't see you. Call it a magical form of covert surveillance if you like. You won't be able to send them any messages or speak to them but – but it might help ease your mind about them.' Sherlock looked keenly at John's face, waiting for a reaction.

Of all the things John had been expecting, this was not among them. He studied Sherlock's face carefully, trying to get some clue as to why the other man was offering this small shred of comfort after the brutal words of the previous night. But Sherlock, as always, offered no indications as to his feelings on his face or in his stance.

'Why bother?' he asked coldly. 'It wouldn't do me any practical good now, would it?'

Sherlock's shoulders twitched a little. It was a tiny reaction, but strangely John found it reassuring. Perhaps Sherlock's regret over what he had said _was _genuine.

'If it offers you some comfort, then I'll consider it of very practical good,' Sherlock answered, rather unsteadily. 'I will have to find a mirror to perform the necessary magic, which may take a while.'

'I have a mirror in my bathroom,' John chimed in before Sherlock could go dashing off. At the other man's look of slight alarm, he hastened to explain: 'Mrs Hudson gave it to me when I first came here, but asked me not to tell you. Don't blame her, I was pretty insistent I wanted one.'

'I've had some bad experiences with mirrors,' Sherlock muttered darkly. 'But I'll make use of one now if you want me to.'

John didn't even have to consider it – his longing to see the people he loved was overpowering. 'Come on,' he said, turning back towards his room. Sherlock followed him obediently, and waited patiently a safe distance from a still-dozing Raghnaid while John went to fetch the little free-standing mirror Mrs Hudson had given him.

John fetched the mirror and handed it over. Sherlock took a deep breath, steeling himself, before he snatched a quick glance at his reflection. John saw his shoulders relax and his eyes focus on the mirror properly, and guessed that Sherlock had been dreading seeing a monstrous reflection. _So he does want to be human, _John mused. _Maybe last night he just lost his temper._

'This is called scriving,' Sherlock announced without further ado. 'It can be used to look upon someone anywhere in the world – provided they are somewhere with a reflective surface, the magic can send images of them back to this mirror. Images and sounds too. I tried looking for my brother and Moriarty both when the curse first descended, but both of them have found ways to guard against such magical intrusion and I never succeeded. Who do you want me to search for?'

'Better try Lestrade,' John suggested with dawning eagerness. 'No way will my sister be up at this hour.'

Sherlock nodded and placed a graceful hand on the mirror's surface, muttering some words John was unable to distinguish. A few seconds later he removed his hand and stared intently into the mirror. 'Hah!' he said in triumph. 'First try! And a good clear picture, too. Here, look.'

John took hold of the mirror eagerly, and beheld Greg's small living room. Greg himself was there, with untidy hair and dressed in nothing but pyjama trousers and his dressing gown. He was talking to Molly of all people, who judging by her rumpled appearance had spent the night on the sofa. She was shaking her head over something.

'_You mustn't keep doing it, Greg,' _John heard. _'It's too dangerous – what if those things get you?'_

'_I have to keep searching,' Lestrade answered in a voice that brooked no opposition. 'I promised, or as good as promised John I'd come and find him. Besides, the search has been scaled down, it's been nearly three weeks and not a sign of him, or that mansion. I can't justify using up so much manpower when we've had no luck in finding anything.'_

_Molly worried at her lower lip. 'Do you think maybe we should tell someone the truth? Maybe we could find someone who would believe us, who would be able to help.'_

_Lestrade sighed. 'If only I could think of someone who would! But I still think that's a shortcut to ending up in the loony bin, Molly. Look at Anderson.'_

_Molly looked as though she was about to press her point, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. Greg looked annoyed._

'_Who the hell is that at this hour? If its Athelney Jones again I'm going to kick his fat arse all the way back to the station.'_

'_I'll get it,' Molly said hastily, rising from the sofa. Greg set his jaw stubbornly and folded his arms, remaining where he was as the sounds of the door opening and conversation drifted back to the living room. A minute later Molly came back into the living room, with someone following her._

_A tall someone, in his forties, wearing a very sharp tailored suit, a little plump around his middle, and who carried a very neatly rolled black umbrella._

Sherlock made a sound reminiscent of the proverbial strangled cat. John looked over at him in alarm. 'Sherlock?' he asked. But Sherlock's eyes were riveted on the mirror.

'_Mycroft,_' he breathed.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **you didn't think I was going to forget about Mycroft, did you? Or Lestrade and Molly? They've all got parts to play in my story... don't wait for Anderson though, he's in therapy :-) Till next time, dear readers!


	18. Chapter 18

Hello, dear readers! Thanks to everyone who has reviewed or favourited my story, needless to say it's a tremendous encouragement. We're going to leave Sherlock and John behind for a little time and see what's going on elsewhere - so, without further ado...

* * *

Molly and Greg both awoke early despite their late night and rather more alcohol than a DI and a stand-in coroner should consume should they wish to remain within the bounds of respectability. Greg had left Molly asleep on the sofa, realising that neither of them was in a fit state to drive her home.

These tipsy evenings together had become something of a ritual since they had escaped the woods, the great manor house and the monster thanks to John's giving himself up. Greg and Molly had lied through their teeth about what had happened in the woods, and their story that several armed men with a huge vicious dog had attacked them before dragging John off had held up well. A missing persons' enquiry had started up with speed, the local constabulary feeling that it was one of their own had been taken and searching with all they had to offer.

But to no avail. The woods had been combed from north to south and east to west, posters put up, appeals been made, various criminal gangs investigated (though Lestrade tried to keep the time spent on this to the bare minimum, knowing nothing would be found) and they hadn't located so much as a thread off John's torn clothes, let alone the mansion where they had spent that fateful night. Rather to Lestrade's relief, no-one had encountered any of the horrendous monsters that had attacked him and Molly and Anderson. But he knew all his colleagues believed that what had started out as a kidnapping was now a murder investigation.

John's sister refused to believe other than that her brother was alive and would return. But relatives seldom thought anything else. So long as there was no body, there was hope as far as Harriet – Harry – was concerned. But Lestrade, made sadly wise by many years of similar cases, knew that no news was usually bad news when people went missing. He had started passing Harry's daily calls to other officers, dreading having to dash her hope each morning. John's mother was dead, he had learned after questioning Harry, and their father hadn't been around for years. Brother and sister had only themselves and each other. And now Harry didn't even have her brother.

The one bright spot in the whole situation was Anderson – or rather, wasn't Anderson. Following their return to the real world, Anderson, when questioned, had broken down and started babbling about monsters and disappearing mansions and how the whole thing wasn't his fault. He was currently on sick leave and seeing a very patient psychologist, thus improving life in the police station immeasurably for everyone else.

Which left Greg and Molly as the only ones to know the truth. They met up every few evenings at each other's homes (for safety) and talked about magic and beasts and what might have happened to John. They hoped and prayed that he was all right, but when they remembered the fearsome monster they had left him with, they couldn't help but think the worst. And even if he was okay, what sort of life could he be leading, locked up as a prisoner in God-knows-where?

This particular morning found them sipping tea and discussing what more they could possibly do find and rescue John, and failing to come up with any decent or even semi-decent ideas. To Molly's alarm, Lestrade admitted that he had been going out to the woods by himself to search with John's illicit army sidearm, which he had discovered in the doctor's flat and pocketed to save John trouble should he come back.

'You mustn't keep doing it, Greg,' she said, slightly horrified. 'It's too dangerous – what if those things get you?'

'I have to keep searching,' Greg answered in a voice that brooked no opposition. 'I promised, or as good as promised John I'd come and find him. Besides, the search has been scaled down, it's been nearly three weeks and not a sign of him, or that mansion. I can't justify using up so much manpower when we've had no luck in finding anything.'

Molly worried at her lower lip. 'Do you think maybe we should tell someone the truth? Maybe we could find someone who would believe us, who would be able to help.'

Greg sighed. 'If only I could think of someone who would! But I still think that's a shortcut to ending up in the loony bin, Molly. Look at Anderson.'

Molly looked as though she was about to press her point, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. Greg looked annoyed.

'Who the hell is that at this hour? If its Athelney Jones again I'm going to kick his fat arse all the way back to the station.'

'I'll get it,' Molly said hastily, rising from the sofa. Greg set his jaw stubbornly and folded his arms, remaining where he was as the sounds of the door opening and conversation drifted back to the living room. A minute later Molly came back into the living room, with someone following her.

A tall someone, in his forties, wearing a very sharp tailored suit, a little plump around his middle, and who carried a very neatly rolled black umbrella.

'Greg this is – er...' Molly came to a halt, looking embarrassed. 'I'm sorry, what was your name again?'

'Mycroft Holmes,' the tall man answered primly. 'I know both of you, you are Miss Molly Hooper and you, I take it, are Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.' He shook Molly's hand genteelly before turning to Lestrade, who stood to shake hands, his dressing gown gaping at the chest a little as he did so.

A most peculiar expression crossed Mycroft Holmes's face as he beheld Lestrade properly, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared and he shook hands elegantly. 'May I be seated?' Mycroft asked, and at Lestrade's nod lowered himself into an armchair and fixed both Greg and Molly with an assessing gaze.

It made Greg slightly nervous. 'Can I ask why you're here?' he said bluntly. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

'I am here because of a missing persons' enquiry centred round the person of one Doctor John Watson, who vanished just under three weeks ago in woodland not far from here, in part of what used to be the Diogenes estate. I would have come to see you earlier, but I was out of the country until yesterday and was unable to do so.' He paused, and if possible his stare became even more penetrating.

'And I am here because that story you concocted to give to the police, whilst quite clever, is a pack of lies from beginning to end. What really happened in those woods on that fateful night?'

Lestrade and Molly both gawped at him, before Lestrade regained his senses and loomed over Holmes threateningly. 'Look, pal,' he said scathingly, 'I don't know who the hell you are, but you don't to get to barge into my home and accuse me of lying, especially not about a missing friend! Get the hell out!'

'Wrong approach,' Mycroft murmured. 'Forgive me, this will simplify matters.' He stood in a fluid motion and put a hand on Mycroft's shoulder, the other on Molly's arm. An instant later, the living room vanished, and they were standing in the woods they had been attacked in.

Both Lestrade and Molly were flummoxed past the point of fainting or throwing a fit. 'How did – we're back in the woods!' Lestrade exclaimed in amazement.

'No, you are not,' Mycroft informed him, smiling just a touch. 'We are still in your living room, Inspector. This is an illusion. Reach out and touch that tree, just try it.'

Molly reached out accordingly, only for her hand to pass through the tree trunk as if it were no more than mist and air. A second later, the woods melted away and all three were standing back in Lestrade's living room.

'How did you do that?' Lestrade asked, awed. 'Did you hypnotise us?'

'No, Inspector,' Mycroft answered, smiling properly this time. 'That was magic, pure magic. Illusions are my speciality. And whatever you encountered in those woods will have been magical as well.'

'Well, that explains a bit,' Molly managed to get out.

'Before anything else, I'd like _you _to explain a bit,' Lestrade said firmly to Mycroft. 'I saw enough in the woods to believe in magic when it happens, but I want to know why I should entrust you with our story, and possibly our friend's safety as well.'

'Fair enough,' Mycroft agreed, reseating himself and gesturing to Lestrade and Molly to do the same – which they did, though not without Lestrade rolling his eyes about being told to sit down in his own home.

'My name, as I said, is Mycroft Holmes,' Mycroft began at once. 'I am one member of a powerful family, all of whose sons and daughters practice magic. Up until five years ago, I lived with my brother Sherlock and our housekeeper Martha Hudson in our ancestral home, located in the middle of those infamous woods.'

'The manor house...' Molly breathed.

'You have seen it?' Mycroft looked pleased. 'Then it's wonderful to know it is still standing. Allow me to continue: my brother and I, though both magicians, pursued very different branches of magical learning. I lent my talents of illusion and conjuring to the service of Her Majesty's government. My brother meanwhile, preferred the medium of curse-breaking above all else. He travelled the world, lifting and breaking curses that had been laid down, some of them centuries old.'

'Magicians in government? Makes sense,' Lestrade quipped.

'As I was saying,' Mycroft continued doggedly, 'my younger brother was a curse-breaking expert. He was – is – also reckless, impatient and headstrong, and in the course of his work acquired several powerful enemies. To come right to the point, five years ago I left my home on a job for the government, and I have not been back since. My home, my brother and my dear Mrs Hudson all vanished without trace whilst I was away and despite five years of searching I have never found the smallest indication that they are even alive. I am quite alone in the world.'

'Not been home? In five years? But – how?' Molly asked in confusion. 'We found the huge house in the woods, we spent a night there.'

A look of intense relief spread over Mycroft's placid face before it melted back into its usual expressionless facade. 'So it _is _there,' he murmured. 'How you found it I have no idea, but something must have led you there. And you must remember, Miss Hooper that you are dealing with magic now. Houses can vanish, your vision can be fooled and those you love can be taken from you in unimaginable ways.'

He sighed, and Lestrade echoed the sound, thinking of John.

'All I can surmise,' Mycroft continued after a pause, 'is that Sherlock fell victim to one of his enemies. As his enemies were all skilled in casting curses, I believe he and our home were cursed in some fashion. It must be a particularly potent spell to have lasted for so long, given my brother's skill. I can only pray to whoever might listen that the curse is not Unbreakable.'

Lestrade glanced over at Molly, who nodded vigorously. Lestrade turned back to Mycroft, who was watching this interplay keenly.

'You'd better hear our side of the story, then,' Lestrade said slowly. 'It began when four of us – me, Molly here, John and someone called Anderson tried to take a shortcut through the woods...'

* * *

Between them, Lestrade and Molly told Mycroft the whole story in fairly coherent fashion. Mycroft spoke little, only asking for clarification on certain points at irregular intervals. He kept his face impassive, but Lestrade thought that he detected disappointment that they had seen nothing of this Sherlock or Mrs Hudson. His eyebrows did rise considerably when he heard the fate of the violin and the monster's reaction to its destruction, however.

At long last, they ground to a halt. They all sat in silence for a while, contemplating what had befallen them.

'One thing is for certain,' Mycroft announced suddenly. 'If this... creature... promised your friend his safety, then he will not have been harmed. Promises hold tremendous power amongst us magic-handlers, they must be kept or else the consequences will be dire. He will be quite well, I assure you.'

'Oh, that's good to know,' Greg almost groaned in relief. 'We've been worrying ourselves sick over what's become of him.'

'Unfortunately, it also means he must remain where he is until the curse is broken or he is released from his own promise,' Mycroft carried on. 'But from what you have told me about this Doctor Watson, he sounds as though he's up to the task. He had better be, my brother is the most appalling companion. Never a moment's peace.'

Molly sniffled, looking a bit teary, though she was smiling. Mycroft removed a silk handkerchief from his pocket with a refined movement and presented it to her. She accepted it gratefully, and then gave Mycroft's poker face a run for its money as she blew her nose loudly.

Lestrade smirked despite himself. Mycroft's eyes met his own, and Lestrade could have sworn he saw a twinkle of rueful humour in them. 'You can keep that handkerchief, Miss Hooper,' Mycroft said politely as she offered it back to him, and Molly tucked it in her pocket happily.

'In the meantime, we three have work to do, out here in the world,' Mycroft continued, turning back to the most urgent issue. 'I wield significant power in certain circles, enough to convince the general public and the police force that thanks to the heroic efforts of DI Lestrade, aided by Miss Molly Hooper, Doctor Watson has been found alive and well, but owing to his gaining knowledge of an extremely dangerous criminal gang, has been forced to enter the Witness Protection Programme. I will require your help in fabricating a letter from him to give to his sister, to put her mind at rest and stop her from wandering into harm's way.'

Mycroft steepled his fingers and regarded Lestrade and Molly in suddenly steely fashion, evidently assessing them both as he spoke. 'That will keep everyone involved in this case away from the dangers apparently posed by the woods and by whatever curse has been inflicted upon my brother, and will save wasting police time. It will thus fall to the three of us to do whatever we can to aid your friend and my brother.'

'Such as?' Lestrade asked cautiously.

'Research for starters. Your story has given me much to think on, and once I have analysed it and gleaned a few more details about it then I will work to do what I can to alleviate this curse. You might both help with that. Besides which, Inspector, your skills as a police officer – finding and questioning people – will come in handy, as I am no expert at curses and locating someone who is will be vital.' Mycroft finished speaking, and for the first time looked a little uncertain, as he waited for the reaction to his proposition.

It was, not so surprisingly by now, Molly who broke the silence. 'We'd better get cracking then, hadn't we?' she said, standing and thrusting both her hands in her coat pockets. 'If Mr Holmes will tell everyone John has been found, you and me can apply for time off Greg, and then get going with research and looking up people who can help.'

'That sounds like a grand idea, Moll,' Lestrade answered approvingly. 'My super's been on at me to take a holiday for months. I'll go and ring Harry Watson once we've got the story straight, she'll be overjoyed. Mr Holmes, if you'll give me a few minutes to get sorted we can be on our way to the police station.'

Mycroft stood, umbrella held at a jaunty angle. 'I seem to have fallen into most capable company,' he remarked approvingly. 'What a nice change from government. I shall go and wait in my car, come and join me when you are ready Inspector. Miss Hooper, we shall drop you at your residence and collect you later once we have arranged everything. Once more unto the breach...'

And so saying, he passed through the living room door, Lestrade and Molly close on his heels, smiling at each other as they went.

* * *

**Author's notes: **Nope, no cliffhanger this time, I'll be kind for once! So, who ships Mystrade? If there is any it will be of the milder variety, given that this is Sherlock and John's story, but I do so love dropping hints! Till next time...


	19. Chapter 19

Hello, dear readers, I hope you are all well. An early update, because I had this chapter ready and also I probably won't be able to post much over Christmas. Well, you all seem to be in favour of Mystrade, so will bear that in mind! But for now, a short chapter to keep things ticking over...

* * *

The image in the mirror began to blur, swirl and fade, eventually revealed to Sherlock and John only their own reflections. Carefully, Sherlock set the mirror down on the little table, before staring unseeing into the middle distance. 'Mycroft,' he murmured. 'My goodness, he's lost weight. Thank heavens he didn't think to spell the mirror – he mustn't have expected anyone to be listening in.'

'Oh, Sherlock,' John stammered out, and a moment later Sherlock found himself being grasped tightly in John's arms. His heart began behaving like a lunatic again, even as delight at the embrace spread through him, banishing his misery and guilt.

'What the... ' he began, but John interrupted.

'It's a hug, Sherlock. Put your arms around me and squeeze gently.'

Sherlock did as he was told. His treacherous mind observed that John fit perfectly into his arms, as though he belonged there. _Shut up, _he told himself.

They stood like that for a little while, until Raghnaid, with a cheep of protest, pried her way in-between them, wanting to be included. Chuckling, John crouched down to embrace her. She then squawked at Sherlock until he knelt and scratched the back of her head. 'Back in your good books, am I?' She nuzzled at his hand, making noises of contentment deep in her throat.

'Your brother is great!' John informed him. Sherlock looked at him incredulously. 'No, really, he is!' John protested. 'Now Harry and everyone will know I'm fine, Mycroft can help Lestrade and Molly... I don't need to worry about people now! I can stay here, help you and Mrs Hudson.'

Sherlock felt a smile stretching his face, a startling change from the despondent expression he had worn all night. 'You want to stay? You want to help me?' he asked inanely, his brain refusing to help him out. John had a most detrimental effect on his intellect.

'Well, I did until you shot your mouth off last night,' John answered, his voice going suddenly cool. He let go of Raghnaid and knelt so he could face Sherlock properly. 'Why should I bother helping you if you don't want your freedom and don't care about the world, or anyone in it?'

Sherlock took a deep breath, desperately scouring his suddenly vacant mind for answers. He could think of none. Damn it, he was a certified genius! What the hell had John done to him, that his greatest and most prized asset, his mind, became useless against this unassuming man? Driven to distraction, he opened his mouth and just spoke.

'I didn't mean what I said. I want my freedom more than anything, to see my brother and to resume my work. To let you go home again. But you, you make me – I don't know, angry. You look at me and I feel wanting somehow. You make me feel and think things I can't understand. That's not your fault, but – but... why should I care what you think? I do care, and I don't know why. Gods, I'm not making any sense.'

'More sense than you realise, Sherlock,' John said in that deceptively gentle tone. 'You think caring is a weakness, that it makes you vulnerable. Well, it does. Not in the way you think perhaps, but it does. But it's worth it.'

'Are you sure about that?' Sherlock groused. 'Mrs Hudson never mentions Mr Hudson to you, does she? Well, the man was an utter bastard. Not when she married him, it came on by degrees. When she met my mother, it was when she was running from him. Mama hid her here in this mansion. What happened to Mr Hudson I don't know exactly, Mama never told me, but I know that he met a deeply unpleasant fate. And Mama herself...' Sherlock hesitated, never having shared this profoundly personal history with anyone, but then he decided to forge ahead. John if anyone would understand. 'My father was a cold, unfeeling man according to my brother. Once, he had loved my mother, but then ambition ravaged him and consumed him. He left her heartbroken, abandoned her for his work. My mother lived the rest of her life alone. Can you not understand why I abhor sentiment?'

'And you think that – that _sentiment _makes your mother and Mrs Hudson weak?' John asked, voice rising in indignation. 'Mrs Hudson is one of the toughest people I know. Whatever her husband did to her, she got through it and came here, and on top of that survived you and this curse. And your mother wasn't alone – she had you and Mycroft and Mrs Hudson. They got hurt, sure, but they survived it. They're stronger than you'll ever be, because you're afraid to be tested and they weren't!'

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, only to find that his tongue had joined his brain in its state of dysfunction. He looked away from John, down at Raghnaid's head feathers, stroking the soft spot under her chin. For much of his adult life he had avoided emotion and emotional entanglement, believing it made people weak. It had never occurred to him that eschewing feelings for fear of them might be a weakness in itself.

'You call me your friend,' he exclaimed at last. 'How can I be, when you see so many flaws in me? I see just as many in you, yet I still like you. Mostly.'

He risked a look at John, and saw to his astonishment that the man was smiling. 'Because that's how friendship is, Sherlock,' he answered. 'It's knowing people's flaws and loving them regardless. Ignoring their faults isn't friendship, it's, well, infatuation I guess. We drive each other mad, and yet we don't hate one another. Mostly, as you said.'

The silence that followed was a longish yet not uncomfortable one, rather like the atmosphere in their sitting room as they relaxed before the fire. The sun coming in at the windows strengthened and grew warmer. Raghnaid continued to nuzzle against each of them in turn.

'John,' Sherlock said at last, steeling himself for what he was about to come out with. 'What I said last night... I'm sorry. Please forgive me.'

John looked at him, before reaching out and placing his hand against Sherlock's face. Sherlock leaned into John's palm, relishing the feel of the callused palm and neat workman's fingers, which were just as warm as the sunlight, in their own way.

'I forgive you,' John told him.

The coldness that had taken up residence in Sherlock the previous evening melted away entirely, leaving only the warmth of companionship. The fire that threatened to consume him whenever John touched him tingled in his face, but burned long and low rather than flaming uncontrollably. Encouraged, he placed his own hand atop John's where it rested. They sat like that for a little while, as morning made itself known.

'What was it like, seeing your brother again after so long?' John asked softly as Sherlock rubbed at Raghnaid's head with his free hand.

'Surprising,' Sherlock answered mischievously. 'He used to be as wide as he is tall. I said all along that Mrs Hudson's cooking was to blame.'

John smirked a little in response, moving his hand away from Sherlock's face to tickle Raghnaid. Sherlock's own hand and face ached at the loss, and he turned away from John to look out of the window, eyes not seeing the oak trees or the sunlight, only the merry smile that sometimes revealed himself to him.

'Thank you, by the way,' John said after a time. 'It's a weight off my mind to know that Harry and everyone won't be worrying about me.'

'Aren't you at all worried for yourself?' Sherlock asked him, intrigued. 'It might take us a long time to break the curse – your stay here might be of some duration.'

John shrugged. 'I'm... well, happy enough here, Sherlock, my loss of freedom aside. I like it here, with you and Mrs Hudson and Raghnaid. Yes, I miss my home and my work and Harry and Greg – but if they're all fine, I will be too.'

Sherlock did not feel the need to answer that, as he turned back to look at John. His eyes met the other man's for an instant – and then John blushed and looked away. Sherlock stared at his bent head for a moment, then realised that John's breathing had speeded up slightly. _Accelerated breathing and heart rate – I see the pulse in his neck – in response to my gaze, a rise in body temperature judging by his face _– _some of the same symptoms I display when he looks at me or touches me! _Sherlock stared at John in growing excitement, as he contemplated the possibility that John had the same physical reaction towards him, as he did towards John. Thinking back on it, John had looked distinctly flustered yesterday when he'd almost walked into the door...

Sherlock's powers of observation had obviously declined in the five years spent cooped up in the mansion, he thought in disgust. Or maybe it was simply that he found John so baffling, so straightforward and yet so confounding.

But what if John were to feel the same strange fascination towards Sherlock? What might happen? Sherlock felt a delicious tremor run through his frame at the idea. Touching John, having John touch him, watching him flush and writhe in response...

_Having your claws scratch his skin, _whispered a nasty little voice from deep within. _You're a monster, you fool, do you honestly believe this man feels anything towards you? If he responds, it's because you've left him in ignorance of what you are. _

Sherlock tore his gaze away from John's bent head and stood abruptly, heading over to the door. 'I must go. I'll see you again later, John.'

John looked at him in surprise. 'Go? Why not stay for a while and have breakfast with me? Mrs Hudson will be up soon, I'm sure she'll want to hear about your brother.'

Sherlock hesitated. 'I – I don't... I should like a little time to myself, before I speak to her. It's been so long since I saw Mycroft. We were never close, but it is gratifying to know he has not given up on me...' He allowed his voice to trail off, knowing John would assume he needed time to regain composure. He did, though not for the reason John would attribute to him. It had been a shock to see his brother again, but also comforting to know he was still out there being a know-it-all and a busybody.

Sure enough, John nodded easily. 'Fair enough, Sherlock. I won't mention anything to her yet. Try and get some sleep later, will you?'

Sherlock nodded, lingering in the doorway, reluctant to leave despite his tumultuous feelings roiling inside him. He was just about to force himself into the corridor when John spoke, a glimmer of mischief in his tone.

'Your brother isn't gay, is he?' John enquired.

'Gay?' Sherlock asked in slight confusion at the non sequitur.

'You know, does he like men above women when it comes to... well, being physical?'

'What has _that _to do with anything?' Sherlock asked, wishing he didn't feel so bemused. Every time, just as he thought he'd worked John out, the infuriating man would say or do something to confound him all over again.

John grinned outright this time, remembering Mycroft's expression as he had beheld Greg for the first time. It had been an expression normally only seen on the faces of goggle-eyed teenage boys when confronted with a Formula One racing car or a beautiful naked woman.

'He looked pretty taken with Greg, if you ask me,' he informed Sherlock. 'I think when you break the curse you might have a prospective brother-in-law to contend with –'

'Oh Gods!' Sherlock ran for it. John, laughing, chased after him.

'Just think of it, Sherlock, family days out, watching romance bloom between them, having Mycroft give you relationship advice because he's the expert, listening to him weep whenever they've had a lover's quarrel –'

'Shut up!'

Sherlock put on an extra burst of speed, only to get rugby tackled by Raghnaid and knocked to the ground. She worried at his shirt, evidently under the impression they were playing some new game. 'Get off me, you feathered moron!' Sherlock yelled.

'And getting to be best man at the wedding, looking at honeymoon photos,' John continued blithely as he wandered up to them. Sherlock jammed his hands over his ears.

'I'm going to be sick!' he groaned.

'Aim away from Raghnaid, she probably won't like it on her feathers,' John said cheerily. 'Where was I? Oh yes, picturing the happy couple.'

Sherlock moaned in agony. He was looking a bit green by now, so John took pity on him and tugged Raghnaid off him. 'We'll play tag later if you like,' he told her. 'And don't worry Sherlock, Greg doesn't swing that way.'

'Why the hell didn't you just say so?' Sherlock demanded in outrage.

'I was going to, but then I started having too much fun!' John informed him with glee. Sherlock made a sound that sounded remarkably like a growl, muttering something about sadistic housemates and darkest vengeance and various other things. But he didn't hesitate when John offered him a hand to help him up.

'Good morning, boys!' came Mrs Hudson's voice. There were no windows in this corridor, and Sherlock lit a few candles with a flick of his fingers to provide them all with some light, knowing it would please Mrs Hudson to see her shadow as much as possible. Sure enough, it appeared within a few moments, stretching its way up the wall to match everyone else's.

Sherlock stared at it, realising that instead of the pale, watery affair it had been last night, his housekeeper's shadow was now as solid and sharply defined as his own. 'Mrs Hudson, your shadow is looking particularly distinct this morning,' he said with a smile, guessing that he would another hour as a human in consequence.

'Oh, so it is! More progress made, then!' Mrs Hudson said in delight. 'What have you boys been up to?'

'We had a blazing row, Sherlock said something stupid, I stormed off and we made it up this morning,' John informed her. 'He actually said sorry.'

'_Well,_' Mrs Hudson answered, sounding stunned. 'Will wonders never cease! This calls for a celebration – who wants a full English breakfast?'

Raghnaid squawked assent. John nodded, and Sherlock rolled his eyes at Mrs Hudson's idea of something to celebrate. But he allowed himself to be pulled along to the kitchen by his housekeeper, having recovered his composure somewhat. He whispered quickly to John to not mention Mycroft until after breakfast. His appetite, for so long absent or else another miserable aspect of his beastly form, had returned and he felt nothing but anticipation at the prospect of sharing a meal with everyone – which was yet another unusual sensation for him.

_Boredom? _He thought with amusement. _What's that?_

* * *

The rest of the day passed in alternate comfortable peace and overblown emotional upheaval. They waited until breakfast was over before telling Mrs Hudson about seeing Mycroft and how he was searching for them. She cried for so long that Sherlock and John had to take turns holding her. After all that, worn out by a sleepless night and dealing with feelings and thoughts he barely understood, Sherlock went to his room, assumed beast form and just slept, leaving John to deal with Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock roused himself in the early afternoon, and went to find his friend – only to be confronted with the request that he try scriving in order to let John see his sister. Sherlock obliged, and managed to located Harry Watson after a few tries. She was also crying when they looked at her through the mirror – it seemed to be the theme for the day, Sherlock thought dryly – but these were tears of happiness, having just been given the news her brother was alive and well.

Sherlock had pretended not to notice the tears that were meandering down John's face as he watched his sister. He wished he could say something, do something, to take John's pain away, but could think of nothing.

He thought back on himself as he had been before the curse. He had not gone out of his way to cause pain, but he had never concerned himself about inflicting it. What did it matter, when there was always a new book to read, a new discovery to make or another curse to break?

And now he couldn't console or help John in his grief.

He had simply stood there, lost in painful thoughts, when John had taken hold of his hand and squeezed it gently. Sherlock had jumped, surprised, and was even more surprised when John smiled at him. His confusion must have shown on his face, but John did not comment, only giving his hand one last squeeze before letting go and heading to the door.

'I'll see you in the living room later, Sherlock,' he had said, and left Sherlock with nothing but the phantom feel of a hand holding his own and the depressingly familiar feeling of total bewilderment.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **I hope you all enjoyed that, because the peace isn't going to last. Dark forces are at work in this world I've created... and on that ominous note, tell next time, dear readers.


	20. Chapter 20

Hello, dear readers! Thanks again to all my lovely reviewers and to everyone who has favourited this story! Please, please get me up to 100 reviews, it would be such a great present. I hope you are all looking forward to Christmas. I've only got a couple of updates left before then and the new year, so enjoy! If possible - I've taken my cues from Mr Moffat when writing this chapter, so be warned...

* * *

Late that evening, John sat quietly in his chair in the living room, whilst Raghnaid stretched out on the rug in front of Sherlock's chair, anticipating his arrival and her role as footstool. John smiled at her, thinking that for all that she could rip him and Sherlock apart and spatter them all over the walls in mere seconds Raghnaid was a big soft lump of a creature. He wondered, not for the first time, what had happened to her family, and came to the conclusion he would simply have to ask. He hadn't liked to in case it was too painful for her to recall, but Raghnaid was nothing if not resilient.

Her wing wasn't showing signs of improvement, however, though John felt the broken bone daily and could tell it was healing. Likely there was nerve damage from the injury, particularly since it didn't cause her much discomfort, suggesting loss of feeling in the limb. John felt badly over this, realising that Raghnaid would in all probability never fly again. She, like him, would be a permanent resident at the mansion.

Still, John was rapidly coming to the conclusion that there were worse fates in the world. _Face it, John, it wouldn't be such a bad life, living here with people you – like a great deal. _He thought of the word he had so nearly used and sighed. He was sunk, he knew that, but he wasn't quite ready to analyse the implications of how strong his feelings had become.

Especially not the ones surrounding Sherlock.

What had gotten into him, that he was so desperate to touch the man, to help him understand emotions, to console him this afternoon when he had looked so unhappy? A hand to his face, holding his hand, hugging him... John had never been the touchy-feely type, but the desire to feel Sherlock's skin against his own, to feel the warmth of his body, was getting stronger by the day. He had always had a strong sex drive, and had not had a partner for some months now, so would have chalked it up to frustrated libido if imagining other sexual partners produced the same response. But daydreams of his ex-girlfriends, that woman from reception he'd always fancied and never got round to asking out, various actresses, had all left him distinctly un-aroused these past few days. They all seemed so dull and lacking in vibrancy compared to Sherlock.

Which was probably only to be expected. The man was a one-off, totally unique (thank goodness, the world probably couldn't handle two of them) and John was fascinated by him. But why the hell had he suddenly developed sexual feelings towards Sherlock? Because that's what he was feeling, unmistakeably.

So why the hell had he, John Watson, who up until that point had only ever had heterosexual leanings, unexpectedly started desiring a man? A man who spent most of his time in the body of a monster, at that? Who had stolen his freedom and was keeping him locked up here, who had all the social grace of a hand grenade and who called him an idiot ten times a day, bare minimum?

_Perhaps it's not just desire you're feeling, _came a ghostly thought that played itself across his mind, light as a feather on the breeze, before being shoved back down into the dark depths of his unconscious.

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair. _Coward_, his mind taunted him. Perhaps he was, but he just couldn't face up to what lay beyond that thought, down in the deepest, darkest, most secret part of his soul.

He felt a nudge at his hand, and realised Raghnaid had stood and come over to him. Smiling, he tickled her under the chin. The griffin displayed an uncanny knowledge of when he or Sherlock were upset or ailing in any way, and always did her best to console them. More often than not, she succeeded.

The living room door crashed open, heralding Sherlock's arrival.

'Sherlock! Think of the wallpaper!' Mrs Hudson cried from somewhere just behind him.

'Why would I think of the wallpaper? Dull. Hello, John, hello, featherbed. Don't bother squawking, I've heard it all before.'

Sherlock flung himself down in his chair and gestured imperiously to the griffin, who good-naturedly assumed her usual position lying by his chair. Sherlock nodded approvingly and propped his feet up on Raghnaid. Mrs Hudson's shadow mimicked her movements as she went to sit down in her rocking chair. It began to sway gently after a few moments, and John smiled a little, enjoying the feeling of peace and contentment that came from having their little family safely gathered together.

Family. Who would have thought it?

'Did you boys do any research today?' Mrs Hudson enquired after a little while.

'No, we've been preoccupied with other things,' Sherlock answered, rather flippantly. 'Besides, I'm not sure what good research will do, given where the solution to our predicament apparently lies. Damn, I hate having to rely on conjecture. I wish there was something _practical _to get to grips with.'

John snorted with laughter. Sherlock glanced over at him enquiringly, and John shook his head. 'Sorry, it's just the idea of magic being practical. Where I come from, it's anything but. It belongs in fairy tales and the like.'

'Magic is _very _practical,' Sherlock informed him haughtily. 'Much more so than those adventure stories you insist on reading. At least magic can _do _things.'

'Yes, yes, of course,' John agreed hastily, not wanting to get dragged into an argument about magic, which he was bound to lose and which was sure to get Sherlock gloating in triumph for at least two hours. Sherlock looked at him with narrowed eyes, evidently spoiling for a fight. From her place beneath his feet, Raghnaid heaved a heavy sigh, and nipped one of his toes.

'Ouch! Stop that, you overgrown moorhen,' Sherlock griped. Raghnaid rubbed her head against his offended foot, and Sherlock subsided with a grunt of pretend annoyance. John smiled and he heard Mrs Hudson giggling a little.

They all sat in silence for a little longer, until Sherlock grew bored again. 'What do you want to ask Raghnaid?' he asked John suddenly. John started, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'You've been staring at her on and off for at least five minutes, so you're obviously working up your nerve to ask something. Spit it out.'

It was John's turn to sigh. Raghnaid raised her head and looked at him with something that looked a great deal like anxiety. John wondered for a moment how the griffin managed to have such a wide range of expressions, given she had only her eyes to communicate them with. 'I've been wondering what happened to Raghnaid's family, that she ended up here with us,' he said finally. 'I haven't liked to ask, in case it was too painful for her.'

Raghnaid eyed him again, and then left her position under Sherlock's feet, coming over to lay her head in his lap. John laid his hand on her head, and as he did so Raghnaid whistled a few notes.

'That's her, telling me to tell you,' Mrs Hudson volunteered. 'She's told me quite a bit – though not all at the same time. I've learned bits and pieces since she's been here, but I think I have most of the story.'

'Tell it,' Sherlock urged her. John glanced down at Raghnaid, worried she might be offended by Sherlock's eager tone, but she seemed quite composed.

'Well, Raghnaid was living on the coast of Scotland with her family, not too far from Edinburgh in fact,' Mrs Hudson began. 'They were a small colony and knew how to hide themselves using magic and stealth. Also, they had several magical artefacts in their possession. Griffins don't hoard treasure as dragons do, but when they find something of value they hang onto it. Well, Raghnaid had been out hunting with one of her brothers, and they were on their way back to their lair. He went ahead, she lingered – because it was a lovely day out, she says. It saved her life.'

Mrs Hudson's voice began to tremble. Raghnaid squeezed her great eyes shut and snuggled closer to John, who began stroking her head for comfort. 'What happened?' he asked softly. From across the hearth, Sherlock listened intently.

'Someone or something had come for one of the magical artefacts Raghnaid's family had in their keeping,' Mrs Hudson resumed at last. 'But they didn't just take the artefact – they slaughtered every member of Raghnaid's family into the bargain. She says she heard her brother screaming when she returned to her family home, in a big cavern. She went in and was attacked, and only just managed to scramble back out. She ran for her life – of course she couldn't fly, not with that wing – came across the place where your great-aunt borrowed space for her pocket dimension, opened a door and escaped in that manner. She had been hiding there for days when you boys found her.'

Mrs Hudson brought her narrative to a tremulous end, and John rubbed the back of Raghnaid's head a little harder, not knowing what else to do in response to the story. Mrs Hudson hadn't given them many details, but John had seen enough of warfare and murder during his lifetime to know what happened must have been horrible.

Sherlock had remained still all through the tale, but now he rose and knelt beside Raghnaid on the rug. Gently, he joined John in stroking the griffin's feathered, furry back. John smiled just a little at Sherlock's bent head, though he knew Sherlock couldn't see it. He was certain the other man was not as callous as he made out – or perhaps he wasn't as callous as he had been a few weeks ago? John wasn't sure.

'But she's here with us now,' Mrs Hudson said firmly, sniffling a bit. 'We're her new family, she says. We'll take good care of her.'

'Of course we will,' John assured her – or was he assuring Raghnaid? He supposed it didn't matter. Everyone was quiet for a few moments, as they considered what had happened. Raghnaid stayed very still, keeping her eyes shut, but after a minute or two sang a few notes, turned her head and started nibbling Sherlock's cuff in the usual fashion.

'Honestly!' he complained, yanking his arm away. Raghnaid went for his collar instead, and he gave in with a groan, leaning against her uninjured shoulder and letting her ruin his shirt. 'Don't touch my hair!' Sherlock cautioned her, but Raghnaid ignored him. John grinned at them both.

'You should probably stop calling her a featherbed if you want her to listen to you about that,' he advised. Sherlock huffed as Raghnaid started pulling gently at his shirt's hem.

'So long as she continues to abuse my wardrobe, I'll call her whatever I like! Stop that, you feathery idiot, or I'll start using you to supply quill pens,' Sherlock answered, half to John and half to Raghnaid, making his position quite clear.

Raghnaid blithely continued to pull at the fabric of the shirt, making little noises of contentment as she did so. Sherlock continued to grumble, but didn't move away. Satisfied that Raghnaid was all right, John cast his mind back over her story.

'Mrs Hudson, what was it that attacked Raghnaid's colony?' he asked, a little hesitantly. 'It must have been very powerful, I know Raghnaid is a fighter and I can only imagine what a whole bunch of griffins must be like in combat.'

Mrs Hudson said a few words in bird-speech to Raghnaid, who paused in her play and sang out the longest song Sherlock and John had ever heard from her, some of it melodious, some of quite harsh and sharp. John guessed she was describing whatever had killed her family, and leaned forward so he could stroke her again.

'That's peculiar,' Mrs Hudson said as Raghnaid halted for breath. 'She says he looked human but wasn't human.'

'That's not so peculiar, plenty of demons assume human form when it suits their purposes,' Sherlock remarked. Mrs Hudson's shadow shook its head, as did the woman herself, presumably.

'No, she says that – that he _was _human once, but wasn't when he attacked her family. Describe him to me, Raghnaid.' Raghnaid began whistling again, and Mrs Hudson translated. 'She only got a glimpse, but she says he wasn't tall, had short dark hair, and wild eyes. She says he was laughing as he killed everyone.'

John winced. He glanced at Raghnaid and Sherlock and started in alarm to see Sherlock's face. It was pale, expressionless, but icy fire was gathering in his eyes. It was not the burning anger John himself seemed to arouse in the man, but something far darker and colder. John quivered inwardly to see it, despite himself – he knew Sherlock had the potential to be a very dangerous man.

'What else?' Sherlock asked, very softly.

Raghnaid chirped a sequence of rather subdued notes. Mrs Hudson let out a strangled noise, something between a gasp and a cry of pain.

'What is it?' John asked, worried.

'She says he was heartless,' Mrs Hudson got out with difficulty.

'Of course, if he killed her family,' John began, but Mrs Hudson interrupted him, sounding very distressed.

'No, she means literally – his shirt had been torn open by one of her relatives during the fighting. He had a gaping hole in his chest, a bloody one. She says she could see nothing in there – his heart had been torn out. He was a man without a heart, and that was why he killed her family. He had no heart to make him feel the horror of what he was doing.'

Mrs Hudson's voice gave out altogether, and John rose from his chair, intending to go and comfort her, but as he stood he happened to glance at Sherlock and halted in worry. Sherlock's face had lost what little colour it had, and instead of being impassive was now contorted in pure, mindless, unadulterated anger.

'Sherlock? What is it?' John asked, a little frightened by what he was seeing. Sherlock laughed, a sound that held no warmth, like a hollow knocking on wood.

'_Moriarty,' _he whispered.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **You didn't seriously think I was going to leave Sherlock's greatest enemy out of the picture, did you? No, he's back and there's trouble ahead for our heroes. Let's hope they catch the clue bus before too much longer... Till next time, dear readers!


	21. Chapter 21

Hello, dear readers! My thanks to everyone who has left feedback and given me the desired 100 reviews! It was a lovely early Christmas present so thank you all again.

Now... this will be my last update until 2014, so enjoy! No cliffhangers this time, though as **LeahMaeLaugh **and **AgeOfDarkness413 **have informed me, I'm a terrible tease, so be warned! But as _Sherlock _is back on 1st Jan (huzzah! *dances around in joy*) I'm sure you'll survive!

And now, without further ado...

* * *

_Never count a man dead until you've seen his corpse. And even then, you can make mistakes – _Frank Herbert, _Dune_

'_Moriarty_.'

The name rang like a knell through the little sitting room. John could have sworn that the fire burned lower and the light dimmed for a moment. Sherlock sprang to his feet and began to pace up and down the room. John watched him, then, satisfied the man wasn't going to punch anything, went over to Mrs Hudson. He had just reached her rocking chair when he felt her arms go around him with a little sob. He hugged her back, keeping an eye on Sherlock all the while.

'I'm a damn fool,' Sherlock uttered as he strode up and down. Up and down. 'I've never even considered Moriarty when it comes to breaking the curse.'

John regarded Sherlock with some anxiety, but he didn't feel able to leave Mrs Hudson, who was crying quite badly from the sound of things. He kept tight hold of her, glancing over at Raghnaid. The griffin was sitting very still, watching Sherlock pace also, only the lashing of her tail giving any indication as to how agitated she was.

'Five years,' Sherlock muttered, oblivious to anything but his own musings. 'Five years and nothing. He simply vanishes, leaves us to it, never interferes beyond leaving his monsters to guard the mansion. I should have known it was too good to be true. He's back, and there'll be hell to pay.'

'What do you mean, he's back?' John asked, moving one of his hands to cradle Mrs Hudson's head gently. 'You said those things in the woods are his spies – surely he's been keeping an eye on you all the while.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'He hasn't, and I know that for a fact. I told you that he's a psychopath – what does that tell you?'

'I'm no psychologist, but I know psychopaths are supposed to have poor impulse control,' John answered slowly, as Sherlock's point began to slowly become clear to him. Sherlock nodded as he paced.

'Exactly, John – Moriarty is diabolically clever, but also remarkably impatient. It is inconceivable that he would have left me alone here for five whole years if he had been at liberty. He would have constantly been looking for new ways to torment me – new elements to the curse, mocking little reminders of his power over me.' Sherlock's fists clenched, and he finally halted in his pacing, staring out of one window where the curtains remained undrawn. 'And there has been nothing. After the first year passed, I dared hope that my nemesis had met his end somehow.'

'If only he had!' Mrs Hudson cried, from where John was still consoling her. 'It wouldn't have ended the curse, but we would have been safe from him at the very least.'

'Curses can survive the person who casts them?' John asked, curiosity overcoming tact. Still, at least Mrs Hudson's sobs seemed to be subsiding.

'Not usually,' Sherlock answered in distracted fashion. 'Typically, magic dies with the one who wielded it – the exceptions are Unbreakable curses, and anything tied to magical objects or power gained from another source. As I told you, Moriarty has almost no innate magical force. He used power gained in a deal with a malevolent spirit to cast this curse upon the mansion, and that power will endure as long as the spirit itself survives – or until we break it ourselves.'

John thought back to his and Sherlock's first night before the fire in this very room, and the story about the witch who had traded her heart and soul for the power to cast an Unbreakable curse. 'That was what he traded in, so he could cast the curse on the village,' he said softly. 'He gave the spirit his heart.'

'A blackened, twisted thing,' Sherlock sneered, still not turning round. 'But enough to curse the village and me and my home.'

John looked at Sherlock's back, which was ramrod straight, at his hands, twisted into fists, which were trembling with fury. He recognised all too well the signs of a man caught up in a dark and dreadful memory – Lord knows he had suffered through enough of them himself after his return from Afghanistan.

Sherlock meanwhile, stared out into the blackness of the night, eyes unfocused, seeing only that which had happened over five years ago. His archenemy, shirt ripped open to display the gaping hollow in his chest, those darkly dancing eyes fixed on him, the mouth curled in a mad, teeth-baring grin...

_'I've whipped up a little something special for you, Sherlock,' Moriarty told him in that high, mocking voice that grated on Sherlock's finely tuned ear. He staggered to his feet and tried desperately to think of a defensive spell, but Moriarty's attack on the mansion had been too sudden, quick and strong, and his magic failed him._

'_I'm going to give you exactly what you want – and isn't that the cruellest deed of all?' Moriarty prattled on in sing-song cadence. 'Imagine, just you alone, here forever, no friends, no family – no nothing!'_

_ He laughed, a maniacal, wracking sound, as though it was being ripped from what remained of his innards. _

_ 'A dream come true, in fact – enjoy, my pet!' _

_ Pain. White-hot burning agony that seared every nerve and fibre of his body, that wrapped itself around him in bands of sharp-edged steel, in chains of alternate fire and ice. He screamed noiselessly as it tore him to shreds. But it lasted only for a few instants, and Sherlock realised that had managed to remain on his feet and so could not be badly hurt. He reached out, intending to counter Moriarty's magical attack – _

_ And saw the deformed paw, tipped with vicious claws. _

_His. _

_NO!_

Sherlock flinched at the memory, forcibly tearing his mind away from it. But Moriarty's image played across his consciousness, as did Sherlock's lingering horror at his realisation of what he had become. It had been the worst day of his life, and until very recently nothing had managed to temper the awfulness of his beastly existence. And now the misery and revulsion return to him in full force.

John watched him anxiously. Suddenly he felt Mrs Hudson pull away from him, and felt her hand on his shoulder, drawing him down a little. He bent over, and felt a soft whisper in his ear.

'Go to him, John.'

John did not hesitate, but squared his shoulders and walked up to Sherlock. The other man did not respond or react to his presence, lost in dreadful reminiscences. John reached out and took one of the tightly clenched fists in his hands.

Sherlock, for his part, was jolted away from that worst of days, and found himself standing in his own living room, with John looking up at him. He looked down at the smaller man, seeing only concern and the warmth, the spirit he had come to associate with John Watson. No anger or disgust or fear.

Sherlock took John's hands in his own, clinging to them tightly, trying to drive away those nightmarish recollections, a drowning man hanging onto a life raft.

'Sherlock, whatever was done to you, you've fought through it,' John said gently, choosing his words with care. 'You survived five years here, and you're still fighting. You're the strong one in all this. If he's back, then you'll beat him.' John studied Sherlock's face, perceiving that reassurance was still needed. 'And I take back what I said when I first came here. I'll help you against him. Whatever you need. Anyone who does what he did to Raghnaid's family has to be stopped.'

Sherlock stared at him, watching the flickering of the firelight over John's fair hair and his open features. The misery that was clenching at his gullet slackened, and he smiled, remembering the discoveries and upheavals of the past three weeks. 'My brave John,' he said very softly.

John looked away, a little embarrassed, but he smiled in return, and Sherlock felt the familiar hitch in his breathing at the sight. After a few moments, John tried to pull his hands out of Sherlock's own, but Sherlock refused to let him go, gripping him all the tighter. John looked back up at him and their eyes met.

Neither could have put a name to what they saw in there, ice-blue studying deep-blue, and vice versa, but each saw something wild and full of promise.

Had they but known it, Mrs Hudson was watching them intently, a small smile playing about her lips as she made her way over to the door as quietly as possible. Raghnaid had stood and was making her way silently to the exit also.

Sherlock felt anticipation, want, _need_, thrumming through every fibre of his being, physical and emotional. This _was _sexual longing, it had to be. What to do? How to act? He didn't understand, not an iota, not his topsy-turvy feelings, nor his body's reactions, and so continued to keep tight hold of John's hands, feeling their strength match his own, reassuring him that he wasn't alone in the world, that he had a friend, a friend who was rapidly coming to mean more to him than anything else he could put a name to.

John, absurdly, caught between the desire surging in him untrammelled and what remained of his rational self inwardly screaming _what the HELL is going on_, could only think of poetry. He thought it was Robert Frost.

_Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favour fire..._

So they gazed at one another.

And then a piece of coal fell from the grate with a clatter that echoed loudly in the noiseless room.

The moment shattered and John tore his eyes away from Sherlock's, trembling with the residue of the powerful need that had gripped him. He didn't pull away, but Sherlock realised with a spasm of inward pain that whatever had been about to happen was lost to them. He wanted to rage, scream and shout in frustration, to do _something _with the energy coursing through him, but controlled himself sternly. They had other matters to attend to. He gave John's hands one last squeeze and released them.

John backed off hastily and seated himself by the fire again. There was a soft groan from Mrs Hudson and another, slightly louder one from Raghnaid.

Sherlock glanced over at where they were still lurking by the doorway. 'Anything the matter?' he asked, rather harshly.

'Nothing at all, dear,' came Mrs Hudson's voice hastily. Raghnaid rolled her eyes in a gesture copied from Sherlock, and stalked back over to the fire, throwing herself down in front of it with a huff of disappointment.

Sherlock eyed both the griffin and Mrs Hudson (well, her shadow) askance, but neither of them said or sang anything more. He turned his attention back to John, who was sitting rigidly in his chair, eyes fixed on the fireplace, his hands shaking – a tremor so faint it would have been indiscernible to anyone but Sherlock.

It troubled Sherlock, as did John's evident desire to avoid looking at him, the distance he had put between them. He thought back to their first real conversation in this very sitting room, when John had refused to help him break the curse, citing his lack of conscience and his arrogance as reasons why. Had the story about Moriarty and what he had done to Raghnaid's family reignited John's old fears about Sherlock and his lack of morality?

The idea that John was afraid of him caused an intense throb of pain throughout his chest. 'I wouldn't have done it,' he said before he could stop himself.

John looked up, frowning slightly. 'You wouldn't have done what?'

'Hurt Raghnaid's family,' Sherlock told him, cursing himself for feeling so uncertain, for trying to justify himself. Then again, maybe John had earned it. 'If I had been after the artefact, I would have stolen it, but I wouldn't have hurt the griffins.'

John's frown melted away and a smile played about the corners of his mouth. 'I know that, Sherlock. You're a pain in the ar – neck,' he amended hastily, remembering Mrs Hudson's presence. 'But you're nothing like this Moriarty. I'm sorry I ever lumped you two together in my mind.'

Sherlock smiled in relief at John, who smiled back briefly before turning away again. Raghnaid stood and crossed over to where Sherlock was still standing by the window. She rubbed her head against Sherlock's middle, obviously agreeing with John. Sherlock did not grumble at her for once, instead allowing his hand to rest on her head. Mrs Hudson said something in bird-speak to her, and Raghnaid's eyes opened wide, before she uttered what sounded very like a string of griffin swear-words even to Sherlock and John's untrained ears.

'Language, dear!' Mrs Hudson reproached her. And then: 'besides, I don't think that's physically possible unless you cut it off first.'

Both Sherlock and John winced. 'What did you say to her, Mrs Hudson?' John asked hurriedly.

'I told her that the man who killed her family was also the one who laid the curse on the mansion – she knew there was a curse here, but not who cast it,' Mrs Hudson answered him, still sounding a little shocked at the griffin's threats. 'She told me what she intends to do to him when they next meet – I won't elaborate. But Raghnaid means to help all she can, too. She wants to avenge her relatives, and besides, we're her family now. She doesn't mean to lose anyone else to Moriarty.'

Sherlock smiled down at the griffin. 'Well spoken, Raghnaid. We'll need your help – everyone's help.' He glanced at the gleaming golden fire, suddenly feeling a little uncertain. Five years ago he would have scorned to accept help from anyone in facing his enemy, but needs must. Besides, going it alone hadn't worked out so well for him the last time.

He eyed John, and saw the resolute expression on the man's face. Damn, John really did mean to help him against Moriarty. Sherlock would have vastly preferred to keep John out of the struggle altogether, given that his friend's sense of self-preservation appeared to be defective, but he knew trying to do so would be futile. He was already well acquainted with John's spirited and stubborn nature.

'We'll have work to do tomorrow, John,' Sherlock informed him, surrendering to the inevitable. 'I'll need to discover everything I can about protective and defensive magicks and how to employ them. I want you to work with Mrs Hudson and see what parts of the mansion and grounds need reinforcing and which can be most easily defended. She has power over everything in our little domain, whilst your experience as a soldier will no doubt come in handy.'

'Will do,' John answered firmly, which was echoed by Mrs Hudson a moment later.

'You and I will have to sketch out a defensive strategy also,' Sherlock continued. 'When Moriarty comes, he'll come for me and I must be ready for him, so we need to consider tactics. And given you're the key to breaking his curse, John, it is best we come up with a contingency plan for you – some defensive measure in case you should encounter Moriarty. You could not fight him, but there are ways of holding him off so that you might escape.'

John nodded willingly, eager to help, but privately Sherlock vowed that things would _never _come to that. Moriarty would not be allowed to harm John in any way or form, or even come near him. Sherlock would kill the bastard first. There were secret passages all over the mansion and its grounds, many concealed or defended by magic, where John could be hidden away if needs be, though Sherlock doubted he'd go willingly if he thought everyone else remained in danger. Perhaps Mrs Hudson could also be persuaded to hide and they could protect one another. That would be a significant weight off Sherlock's mind...

There _was _another way John could be kept safe, but Sherlock was not willing to consider it. Yet.

'Raghnaid will undoubtedly want to fight,' Sherlock carried on, rubbing the griffin's head. 'But she also has magic, so we must give some thought to how best she can employ it in our defence. Mrs Hudson, you can speak to her about that.'

'Of course, dear,' Mrs Hudson answered, sounding a lot steadier than she had when she had first learned of Moriarty's reappearance. Sherlock crossed over to her and put an arm around her shoulders, smiling as he felt her hand grip his own.

'What would we do without you, Mrs Hudson?' he asked, half-jokingly, half-deadly serious.

'You wouldn't last a week,' she retorted, and Sherlock smiled, noting John's quiet chuckle and the twinkle in Raghnaid's great golden eyes. His earlier horror at the thought of his nemesis and the agony of memory was subsiding and he was anticipating the battle to come. It was not the eager, fervent excitement of yesteryear, when a fight with Moriarty meant a relief from boredom, of feverish work and study, of feeling _alive_.

It was something far deeper and stronger – sadder, but even more resolute than before he had been cursed. This fight was not about proving who was cleverer or more skilful: there was far more at stake. This was about protecting his home and family. This was about facing down evil, an evil he had inadvertently allowed to flourish, that he had unwittingly encouraged. This would be one victory, when it came – when, not if – that he would have truly earned.

The idea of victory made Sherlock recall the nature of his curse, and he glanced at the clock, to check how long he had to remain human. Damn – only a little more than five minutes. Sighing, he wondered how best to take his leave, given the plans they had to make and the reassurance John and Mrs Hudson probably still needed. He flicked a glance down at the latter – and felt a smile curve his mouth upwards.

He could _see _something in her rocking chair. Not an outline exactly, it was more of a blurry shape, see-through but distorted, as though heat-haze had concentrated itself in one particular spot, forming the silhouette of a human. 'John, look,' he commanded.

John did so. 'Oh, wow,' he uttered, sounding delighted. 'Mrs Hudson, we can see you! Sort of.'

Mrs Hudson must have looked at herself, because they all heard her gasp of delight. 'Oh, how wonderful!' she cried, and her sobs started up again in earnest.

Sherlock sighed in exasperation – surely the infuriating woman would have run out of tears by now? 'Don't snivel, Mrs Hudson,' he commanded her, but she ignored him.

'I'm sorry I'm being so silly,' she wept, 'but I must cry. I must. Five years and nothing, and now this… it's too much. I'm so proud of you both.'

Sherlock grunted a response, heading over to the door so as to be able to make a quick exit should the curse reassert itself – though given Mrs Hudson's new level of visibility, he suspected he would have yet another hour as a human. Six hours, a full quarter of the day as himself – the prospect was sublime. He watched as John rose to take his place by Mrs Hudson's side, putting his arm around her shoulders as she cried.

'Please stop, Mrs Hudson, you'll give yourself an awful headache,' John protested gently. Sherlock rolled his eyes and glanced at the clock. He grimaced – if the curse was about to reassert itself at the same time as yesterday, then it would happen in a few seconds. He opened the living room door silently and stepped into the passageway to conceal the transformation from John's eyes.

The moment came and went, and Sherlock realised in overwhelming relief that he was still human. He returned to the living room, where neither John nor Mrs Hudson appeared to have noticed his brief departure. Mrs Hudson seemed to be getting herself back under control, Sherlock was glad to note – he never knew how to handle tears. Other people's naturally – he himself never cried.

Almost never.

John glanced up at him, and gave him a small smile. 'I think we'd better call it a night,' he said, one arm still around Mrs Hudson. 'Everyone is tired and upset, and I think a good night's sleep is what we need. We can make proper plans about Moriarty tomorrow. I don't think I'll be much help at the moment at any rate, I'm worn out.'

John did look weary, Sherlock observed. He himself was feeling quite chipper after his sleep that afternoon and after weakening the curse yet again, but acknowledged the sense in John's words. 'Bed for you three, then,' he conceded. 'I'm not tired, so I'll stay up and work. Raghnaid, I'd like for you to stay with Mrs Hudson tonight. Look after one another.'

Raghnaid, who had been watching their little domestic drama with interest, squawked an affirmative.

'What about John?' Mrs Hudson enquired, sounding raspy from crying.

'I'm not spending another night on the rug or the sofa!' John protested at once. 'I'll be fine in my room, just because the curse has started to lift doesn't mean Moriarty will attack at once. No need to be paranoid, just cautious.'

'I'll look in on you, just the same,' Sherlock remarked, taking care to keep his tone casual. 'I'll do a patrol of the grounds and make sure all the wards are in place, they'll give us advance warning should anything nefarious make an appearance. But as you say John, we should exercise caution but not become overly fearful.'

John nodded, though he averted his gaze. Sherlock studied him for some moments, before extending a hand to place on John's shoulder. He felt the other man start at his touch, though John did not look up. For a second Sherlock thought that John was still afraid of him, but then he felt the nervous animal tension in the man's muscles, the slight tremor beneath his fingertips, the flush that had risen to his face, and how still and contained John was standing. Sherlock realised that John was fighting to remain in control of himself, that his touch was conjuring some response in John that the other man was for some reason decidedly uncomfortable with.

_He's not afraid of me – he's afraid of himself and what he's feeling... oh, that's interesting, decidedly interesting, _Sherlock thought with glee as he looked upon his friend.

'Sleep well, John, you'll need it,' he said, giving John's shoulder a squeeze before releasing it. John nodded at him before bidding a quick good night to Mrs Hudson and Raghnaid and making for the door. Sherlock watched him go, musing on John's response to him – it was definitely a physical one, judging by the scene that had played itself out in John's room this morning. Did John desire him?

_Oh, yes, please, ye Gods, let him desire me as much as I do him, _Sherlock thought before he could arrest the impulse. He sighed at the idea, his delight fading. What good would John's desiring him do? Sherlock was still a beast, though he had won back some of his humanity at long last. He couldn't enter into any kind of physical relations with John – how could he defile his only friend in that manner? A beast could not – should not – presume to desire or be desired, particularly not towards or by a man as good and honest and straightforward as John. Sherlock's monstrousness would repulse him.

Besides which, John may be attracted to Sherlock, but he obviously didn't want to be attracted to him. Sherlock wondered why – John was happy to be his friend, so it couldn't be a personal revulsion towards Sherlock. Perhaps he was disconcerted at being attracted to a man – Sherlock had not discussed John's sexual or romantic history with him, save his cursory observations about John's single status when they had first met. Had John desired men in the past, or was his reaction to Sherlock something new and disconcerting for him?

Sherlock could sympathise, were that the case. He had never desired _anyone _that he could recall prior to John's arrival in his life, not even Irene Adler, despite her efforts at seducing him before she discovered the nature of his curse. He had understood objectively that Adler was a beautiful woman, of course, but she had not aroused him physically. Any feelings of warmth Sherlock had held towards her had stemmed from gratification at encountering a worthy opponent.

John, on the other hand, was making Sherlock's internal organs misbehave most terribly – and apparently now John's own body was acting in ways he didn't intend it to. Sherlock grinned at the notion, his good humour slightly restored. John had turned him and his monotonous existence upside down and inside out in the three weeks since his arrival in the mansion – it was only fair Sherlock should garner a little payback, that he should bewilder and discompose John in his turn.

A discreet cough from Raghnaid recalled Sherlock to himself, and he realised with chagrin that he was still staring after John and grinning like a moron, in front of the featherbed and Mrs Hudson, no less. Annoyed with himself, he strode over to the door.

'Good night, Mrs Hudson, eiderdown-in-waiting,' he said curtly as he left the living room and fled down the corridor.

Mrs Hudson watched him go, and shook her head in exasperation. 'Men!' she remarked to Raghnaid, who chirruped in agreement, shrugging her wide shoulders as she did so. 'Ah well,' Mrs Hudson continued. 'Let's not interfere. They'll get there in the end.'

Raghnaid made a remark in griffin-speech.

'Hopefully? I like to think of it as eventually, my dear.'

* * *

**Author's Notes: **The poem John was thinking of is indeed by Robert Frost, and is called _Fire and Ice_. If there are any Neil Gaiman fans out there, it inspired a story in the graphic novel _Endless Nights,_ called 'From What I've Tasted of Desire...' (where I first learned of it). You can find the poem here: poem/173527.

All that remains is to wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a happy and safe New Year!


	22. Chapter 22

Happy New Year, dear readers! Because I've had the good sense to be born a Brit, I've seen _The Empty Hearse, _and am totally wrung out emotionally! I'm a reserved person generally, and I've _never _had such an intense reaction to a TV show before. I've had it with books and a few films (Peter Jackson, I'm looking at you!) but never TV. Brace yourselves. No spoilers for those who haven't seen it, I just want to say that a) perhaps a little surprisingly, I really like Mary Morstan, and b) for all that he's a genius, Sherlock really is a moron. Watch it to see what I mean.

Without further ado, here's a double posting to celebrate _Sherlock_'s return, picking up right where we left off...

* * *

Sherlock's curse took possession of him again a little under an hour later, but he was not too disheartened. Not now he knew where the solution lay, in John's eyes – and indeed, in Sherlock's own. He knew was gradually becoming more human, letting in new emotions and sensations, learning about friendship and liking and teaching John. Part of him resented it, having to let go of his cherished independence, having to take on the burdens of companionship and sentiment, allowing his razor-sharp intellect to become fogged and blurred though passion.

But on the other hand, it was exhilarating. Sherlock had learned so much over the past few weeks, and the boredom and despair that had afflicted him for five miserable years had all but dissipated. He would not give up what he and John shared now, not for all the gold in the average dragon's treasure hoard. He would get eaten by the damn dragon before he allowed John to come to any harm.

And John would be kept safe by him, Sherlock vowed. Moriarty was still out there, true, but now Sherlock was aware of it he could prepare to face him, hone his magical skills and make his home secure. And he would have John and Mrs Hudson and Raghnaid to help him, to give him reasons to fight. With that thought held firmly in his mind, once he had seen everyone safely to bed, Sherlock took himself off the library, and began his work.

_Anticipation is the essence of battle, _he told himself. Despite Moriarty's skill and cunning, the ways in which he could launch a magical attack against the mansion – and by extension Sherlock and John – were finite. It was possible to anticipate every eventuality, and so Sherlock started to do so. The lack of data was a significant hindrance, as was, he grudgingly admitted, his inability to call on Mycroft's help.

But he and John would muddle through somehow. That was something, to use Mrs Hudson's threadbare phrase, he just _knew. _

* * *

Long after everyone else slumbered, Sherlock stalked along the corridors, deep in thought, so absorbed in his theories and plans that walking upright, a task he usually performed with difficulty in his monstrous state, came almost naturally to him. It was the darkest hour of the night, when the sunlight was but a distant memory and moonlight reigned supreme. Almost without meaning to – almost – he found himself outside the door to John's room.

Sherlock pressed his suddenly overheated body against the cool wood, shuddering as he fought back the now familiar urge to open the door and gaze upon John as he slept. Had he been in human form he would have surrendered to the impulse without much consideration, but his monstrosity kept him riveted where he was standing, on the wrong side of the heavy wooden door.

It was at moments like this that Sherlock felt his curse most acutely. Moriarty had inadvertently done him a kindness in separating him from the bulk of humanity, so that his deformed body and bloodthirsty nature were not made more painful by comparison. But it was when he thought of John that Sherlock truly felt all the bitterness and misery of his beastly state. Sherlock's curse separated them more absolutely than if the Pacific Ocean lay between them. A monster could not aspire to keep company with, be friends with, or – Gods help him – desire a human man.

Sherlock turned his back to the door, intending to walk away and leave John to sleep in peace – but a low murmur reached his sensitive ears before he could take a single step. It was John, John's voice. It came again, clearer this time: 'Sherlock.'

Sherlock's claws were on the door handle before his brain had finished cataloguing the sound. He opened the door, slightly surprised to find it unlocked, and gazed into the room.

The fire was burning low, casting its dim light over the scene, flickering over the bed, skewed through the prism of the glass of water that stood on the bedside table. The heavy window curtains were drawn, so that the upper half of John's body lay in shadow. Clawed feet muffled by the heavy carpet, Sherlock drew near to the bed, looking down at the sleeping man.

John was deep asleep and dreaming, eyelids twitching a little, his face looking younger and more vulnerable as he rested, without the cares and anxieties of the waking world to burden him. He lay on his back, arms flung out carelessly – one up by his head, the other by his side. He looked so – so warm, so peaceful, so...

_Tempting,_ whispered the ghost of a thought in Sherlock's mind. The yearning to take John in his arms and hold him close was so powerful that Sherlock's limbs trembled with the ache of restraining himself. For once, it was not physical desire that compelled him – it was stupid sentiment, the need to hold John to him in order to comfort them both, to keep him safe, to shield him from anything that might be lurking in the night.

John stirred a little in his sleep, and Sherlock took a step back, in readiness should the sleeper awaken. But John did not open his eyes, only his lips. 'Sherlock,' he said to the phantom of his dreams. 'Don't leave. Stay.'

Sherlock, entranced, stepped back to the bedside, powerless to resist the whispered words. John was dreaming of him, entreating him to stay close, just as Sherlock longed with all his might to do. _And one day I'll be able to, _he vowed silently. _One day the curse will be broken, and I will be able to take you in my arms whenever I wish..._

Without conscious thought, he extended a clawed hand towards the sleeping man.

And John's eyes snapped open.

Sherlock froze in unmitigated horror, his animal strength and speed failing him utterly. John blinked, and then his eyes focused on the horrendous creature standing at his bedside. He looked alarmed for a moment, but then – inexplicably – the fear faded. 'What –' he began, and the sound of his voice shattered Sherlock's paralysis.

Sherlock staggered backwards, desperate to get away, certain he had committed the unforgiveable. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' he said wildly, snatching back his furred hand. In his haste, one leg tangled with the bedside table – it, and he, went crashing heavily to the floor, the hard landing thankfully cushioned by the thick carpet. The table was undamaged, but Sherlock's arm landed on top of the water glass, which had fallen along with the furniture. His weight smashed it into smithereens and the shards of glass did their cruel work, cutting his flesh to the bone. He cried out in pain, and John sprang out of bed before Sherlock could gather his wits sufficiently to flee.

'Oh, you've hurt yourself! Here, come over to the fire –' John dodged the broken glass and went to snatch up a shirt that was draped over one of his armchairs. He advanced on Sherlock, as the fire leapt up and burned brightly in the little grate. 'Let me pick out the glass, and then I'll bandage it up –'

Sherlock started in alarm and crawled away from John's outstretched hand, one paw clamped to his injured limb, blood welling up between his twisted fingers. The other man halted, looking at Sherlock uncertainly. 'I'm not going to hurt you,' John said softly.

Sherlock snorted despite his pain. 'As if you could!' He managed to get to his feet, and then realised in dismay that John had positioned himself so he stood between Sherlock and the door. 'Get out of the way!' he snapped.

John folded his arms. 'No, not until you let me take a look at that.'

Sherlock stared at him. '_Please _move,' he tried. John shook his head. 'Oh, for God's sake,' Sherlock snarled, pain shortening his temper. 'I'm the monster who attacked your friend, remember? What do you care if I'm injured? I'm not meant to be in here, so get out of my way and I'll leave you in peace!'

'Shove me aside, then,' John answered, unperturbed. 'You're strong enough for that.'

Sherlock blanched at the idea – he was strong enough, certainly, but the idea of laying a hand on John repulsed him. Had he been human – it all came back to that – he wouldn't have hesitated, but he didn't want to touch his friend shaped like this. He snarled angrily, but made no move towards John. He was stuck.

'You know I won't,' he said sullenly. 'So just stand aside. You mustn't touch me.'

John raised his eyebrows. 'Why ever not?' the other man asked, sounding genuinely curious about Sherlock's reasons.

'Look at me!' Sherlock snapped back. 'I don't belong with humans, I shouldn't be here with you. I don't belong anywhere! I'm a monster, you'd find me repulsive if you had a particle of sense. I mustn't be near you, it was wrong of me to come in here.' He sighed deeply, suddenly feeling very sad.

John stared at the beastly creature before him. 'I honestly don't care what you look like,' he said softly, obviously weighing up his words carefully. 'And if I don't mind, why should you? But what I am worried about is that wound on your arm. Come over to the fire and let me look at it, I'm not letting you out of here until you do.'

Sherlock snarled again, but John's face was wearing his most stubborn expression and Sherlock's arm was throbbing with every beat of his racing heart. Slowly, keeping an eye on John in case he moved from the door and offered an opportunity of escape, he slouched over to the fireplace and sat on the rug. John waited until he had settled himself, before moving forward and crouching down next to him. 'Hold as still as possible' he cautioned, and reached out and took hold of Sherlock's arm gently. He caught hold of Sherlock's blood-blackened sleeve and ripped it bodily away at the shoulder.

It happened with remarkable speed, which was probably why Sherlock remained frozen by the fire, instead of bolting for the doorway. That and John had his arm in a firm grip, and there was no escape except by struggle. Inhuman strength went along with Sherlock's beastly shape – he just couldn't take the risk of injuring John by making a break for it. So he fought to remain as still as possible – no easy task when John was prodding at the gashes on his arm, in search of broken glass.

'Doesn't look like there's too much glass in there,' John muttered as he examined the wound. 'Why were you in my room, while we're at it?'

_Because I long to be near you. _'I had come to check on you,' he answered, for once grateful for the harsh animal tones that replaced his human voice and disguised his emotion. 'I meant simply to look in on you and leave. But you were talking in your sleep and so I came in, to try and hear what was being said.'

John paused in his ministrations. 'What was I saying?'

Sherlock shrugged, and winced as the motion jarred his hurting arm. 'You were asking someone not to leave. I am not sure who.' _Me. You were asking me._

John went back to picking out bits of glass from the blood and tissue. 'Where's Sherlock? I thought he'd be doing the checking.'

_He's right in front of you and hating himself for it. _'He's resting. I'm here to guard you instead. You have nothing to fear,' Sherlock answered harshly.

'I know that,' John sighed, turning Sherlock's furred arm in his grasp to check he had removed every particle of debris from the wound. 'But you've got something to be worried about from the sounds of things. Why were you in such a panic to get away? Did Sherlock order you to keep away? He can't have, not if you're here to keep an eye on me.'

'I am meant to do so in unobtrusive fashion,' Sherlock sighed in his turn. 'He doesn't want me near you. I am happy to comply. It is the best for all concerned. Monsters do not belong with humans.'

John stopped poking about in his wound and stared directly at Sherlock, who took care to keep his eyes averted. 'You keep calling yourself a monster,' he said flatly. 'What the hell for? What makes you so monstrous?'

Sherlock forgot about hiding his eyes and stared back incredulously. 'You have _got _to be joking,' he growled in disbelief. '_Look at me._'

John huffed. 'I am doing. So what if you're not that easy on the eye? I've met gorgeous people who were stone-cold evil bastards under their good looks. I don't care if you have fangs and claws.'

Sherlock found himself momentarily stunned. But he rallied. 'I have to hunt for my food,' he continued, as John continued to grip his arm, his injury forgotten by them both. 'The raw meat provided by the mansion's spells generally isn't enough for my needs. I spend my spare time hunting and devouring animals in the forest. I'm a bloodthirsty creature.'

John chuckled. 'Sorry, you'll have to do better than that. Most humans are meat-eaters, only our killing is done in an abattoir. Very civilized. Hunting for survival is no sin. And besides, I fought in Afghanistan, do you think I'm squeamish?'

Sherlock was silent, unable to comprehend John's stubborn refusal to see what was right in front of him. He was tainted by Moriarty's black magic, he was certain. He remembered Irene Adler's screams of fear and disgust. By rights, John should be reacting in exactly the same fashion.

But John was far gentler and more compassionate than Irene, ex-soldier or not. No doubt he felt some form of empathy towards an injured patient, monstrous creature or otherwise.

'I hurt your friend,' he said finally, tonelessly. 'I imprisoned you here. Is that the proof you need of what I am?'

John paused thoughtfully. 'Not your finest hour, I'll admit. But you – you did understand at last, why I thought what you did was wrong. Why it was wrong. And you were sorry about it. And – if I hadn't stayed here, I wouldn't have gotten to know Sherlock and Mrs Hudson and Raghnaid. I'm happy here with them.'

The warmth that spread itself throughout Sherlock's being in response to John's innocent statement was intense enough to all but obliterate the throbbing pain in his arm. Again without conscious thought, forgetting his horror of touching his friend while shaped like a monster, he laid a clawed hand on John's shoulder. 'You are a very strange person, John Watson,' he said quietly. 'But I like you all the better for it.'

John raised his eyebrows at that. 'You like me? I thought you were a classic misanthrope. You don't seem to have a liking for anyone, even yourself.'

Sherlock laughed, a harsh and discordant sound, but one that held some trace of humour. 'I don't. I dislike company because it is an incessant reminder that I don't belong anywhere, or with anyone. I have human rationality, but a beast's appearance. And I do not belong with those creatures in the woods. I hunt, as you say, for survival. They all hunt mainly for pleasure, nor do they confine themselves to hunting dumb animals. More than one unfortunate human has met their doom at their teeth and claws. There is no way of protecting all the woodland from them – only the mansion and its grounds.'

Sherlock glanced at John, but the other man did not appear shocked or disconcerted by his spoken musings. Encouraged, he carried on. 'I suppose the bitterest thing of all is that I was created by dark magic. I carry the taint of my creator, whom I despise. If I could leave here, I would go and live as a simple beast, away from all humanity. Somewhere I could be at peace, where I would not be reminded of what I am.'

John, very slowly, took his hand off Sherlock's arm and began to tear his soft cotton shirt into strips, the fabric ripping with an abrasive sound. 'Wouldn't you be lonely?' he asked softly.

Sherlock pretended to consider. _Oh, John, I would miss you with every fibre of my being. _'Perhaps, though not in the sense you mean it. I find being alone pleasant. I would be lonely, though not unhappy.'

John began wadding up one of the strips of cloth for Sherlock's arm. 'But you wouldn't be happy, either.'

Sherlock snorted gracelessly. 'Happiness is overrated. Is it a goal, something one can achieve through sheer force of will? It happens, if at all, by accident. Look at you, trapped here for life, yet you say you have achieved it. My master vastly prefers work and stimulation to the pursuit of happiness. It is a happiness of a kind, more than most people achieve. More than most people deserve.' He sighed again. 'More than I deserve.'

John pressed the wadded-up cloth against Sherlock's wound. 'Why shouldn't you deserve a little happiness?' he enquired. 'Just because you look – well, alarming –'

'It's more than that,' Sherlock interrupted harshly. 'I've done cruel things in my life, and not just to you. Before I came to the mansion. I did not set out to do evil, but nor did I do anything to prevent it. I may even have encouraged it. My imprisonment here...' his voice trailed off as he recalled Mrs Hudson's words, spoken weeks ago. 'Do you know, I have not thought of the Power of Three in years?' he asked, briefly forgetting he was meant to be acting the part of the beastly servant.

John was bandaging Sherlock's wound as gently as he could manage, but something in the beastly voice made him look directly at Sherlock's monstrous face. 'What's the Power of Three?' he asked curiously.

'An unwritten, but powerful and potent magical law, as true and strong as gravity or the like,' Sherlock answered abstractedly, as he remembered his mother's lessons on the subject – not that he'd ever paid attention, not until it was too late. 'It is the universe's way of maintaining a balance between good and evil, right and wrong. Humans are savage creatures, who will commit any crime or depravity if they believe they can get away with it. Magicians would tear the world apart with their magic if they had nothing to keep them in check, and that is where the Power of Three comes in. It states that whatever you cause by practising magic, be it good or ill, will come back to you times three. I caused misery and unhappiness out in the world – it makes senses that this is my punishment.'

John frowned as he contemplated this. 'And Sherlock? Is the curse his punishment too?' he asked, a slight hesitation over the name _Sherlock _making his voice falter for an instant. The latter nodded his animal head, preoccupied with his grim thoughts.

'More than probable,' he growled, not fiercely. 'As he told you that first evening, people were hurt, some perhaps died, because of his feud with another magician. If this _is_ his punishment, it will be well deserved.'

John sat back, kneeling before Sherlock, who realised that his hand was still on John's shoulder and withdrew it hastily. But John did not seem to notice, gazing into the fire thoughtfully. 'Deserved or not,' he said, 'I hope it doesn't last much longer. He's suffered enough for five years. I think he's earned a second chance.'

'So kind and compassionate,' Sherlock said mockingly, disturbed by the turn the conversation had taken – if this curse was indeed his punishment, John was caught up in it now too. So, for that matter, were Mrs Hudson and Raghnaid – what had they ever done to deserve such misery? 'You have lost your freedom, your griffin friend her family, and the housekeeper here has suffered just as much and with far less cause. What is your friend, that he poisons everything he touches? What am I, that I assist in doing so?'

Furious with himself for his moment of weakness in allowing John to tend his injuries, furious with himself for being a blithering idiot and wandering in here like a lovesick puppy, he stood, intending to leave forthwith. John merely rolled his eyes and reached up to grasp Sherlock's dangling wrist, preventing him from moving.

'You're as bad as Sherlock, you know that?' John demanded. 'Get over yourself! Of course you're – he's – not responsible for everything that's happened here, that's Moriarty and no-one else! Why torture yourself? Or do you like being a monster? Is it an easy life, thinking the worst of yourself, that you don't have to try and be something more?'

'You're a fine one to talk!' Despite his anger, Sherlock forced himself to be gentle as he caught hold of John's arm and tugged him to his feet. He took John's hand and placed it on his injury, hissing at the pain. 'Here. Be something more. Heal my wound.'

'What do you –'

'Oh, don't play dumb,' Sherlock snarled angrily. 'I know all about your little violin-mending exploits. And I also know that you haven't once asked about learning more about magic or practising your own.'

John swallowed. 'There hasn't been time.'

'Well, then there's time now. We have the whole night.' Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, spitefully pleased by his discomfort. 'Use your magic and heal my wound.'

John studied the carpet. 'I don't know how. I don't know if I _can_.'

'Your magic is based around healing and mending, of course you can. I'll talk you through it,' Sherlock carried on remorselessly. 'I know something about magic, for all my beastliness.' John did not respond, and Sherlock grinned in triumph. 'You see? You're afraid. You're clinging to your old notion of yourself as someone without magic, because it's all you can rely on. Taken away from your home and friends and family, all you have is yourself...' Sherlock voice faded as he realised exactly what he was saying.

'Oh, Gods, John, I'm sorry,' he whispered, stricken.

'I guess we're alike in that, then, aren't we?' John answered, as if he hadn't heard Sherlock's apology. His voice had lost all its former warmth, sounding as it had done that dreadful night when Sherlock's cruelty had been too much for him.

Very gently, Sherlock released John's wrist and moved away. 'Try and forget what I have said tonight. I should never have come to you,' he uttered softly. 'You have every right to be afraid. What I and my master have done to you...' Sherlock could think of no way to finish the sentence. 'Here, then, is the proof of what I am.'

He turned to leave, feeling inexpressibly weary. _When _would he learn? His earlier delight at weakening his curse was turned into bitter-tasting self-hatred, as, not for the first time, he contemplated the idea that his monstrous appearance might match his inner self. At least it would not reflect badly on his human guise, given his secret remained undiscovered.

But before he reached the door, he felt a human hand take hold of his beastly one. He half-turned back, puzzled by John's sudden movement.

'Don't go. Stay,' John said softly.

Sherlock shook his head. 'It's best if I do not. The master will be furious with me when he learns what has taken place here tonight.'

John quirked a small smile at him, something Sherlock saw out of the corner of his eye. His lips twitched despite his anguish. 'I won't tell if you won't,' John assured him.

Sherlock shook his head again. 'I mustn't. I don't belong here with you. You ask me why I consider myself a monster, do you not have the proof in your own situation?'

John hesitated for a moment, before squaring his shoulders, evidently coming to a decision of some sort. 'Fine. Tell me how to heal that wound. Tell me what to do, how to work – work magic.'

Sherlock turned back to stare at him. 'You mean that?'

John nodded. 'You're right. I am frightened. This isn't who I thought I was. But I'll – I'll try and be more if you will. Even trade. I don't believe that you're as much of a monster as you make yourself out to be.' He shifted from foot to foot, nervous.

Sherlock stared at him, unsettled by the proposal. His belief in his essential monstrosity was a strong one, given he had almost no proof to the contrary, save the weakening of the curse, but perhaps... 'How do I become... more, as you phrase it?' he drawled, concealing his own fear. 'I cannot alter my appearance, nor cease my hunting –' he broke off as he remembered his own reasons for counting himself a monster. Was John about to ask for his freedom?

_The one thing in the world I shall never grant, _Sherlock realised. John had promised him forever, and Sherlock knew he would hold John to his promise. He couldn't let John go, no matter what the circumstances. He held his breath, waiting to dash John's hopes and hoping that the other man wouldn't be too downcast by his refusal.

But John surprised him. 'Come and see me again,' he suggested, almost cheerfully. 'Shall we say for a few minutes each evening? No-one else need know.'

Sherlock shook his head, certain he would never get this contrary man worked out to his satisfaction. 'You are a very strange man, John,' he said softly, but there was no scorn in his tone. How could there, when he thought of everything that had happened over the past few weeks, his growing humanity, the escapades with Raghnaid, and Mrs Hudson's happiness?

'So you've said,' John said, with another crooked smile. 'Deal?'

'Deal,' Sherlock agreed. 'Now, come and sit by the fire. You're a novice at magic and it will probably take a great deal of your energy to heal me.'

John seated himself obediently. Sherlock crouched next to him, extending his wounded arm, the makeshift bandage already dark with blood. 'Put your hands on my injury,' he instructed, and John did so. 'Now, I want you to close your eyes. Picture your magic – in any fashion you please. As a light, as water ready to flow, as a thread, spooled up and ready to unwind. Picture it inside you.'

John shut his eyes, and Sherlock presumed that he was imagining magic in tangible form. 'Now, imagine it flowing from inside you, along your arm, out through your hand – imagine my wound healing itself, the blood ceasing to flow, the flesh mending itself...'

Sherlock allowed his harsh voice to trail off, as he felt the heat rising in John's hand. Sherlock felt a change in the atmosphere, as though the air were pressing down on him, like the heaviness felt before a thunderstorm. And –

And nothing.

John snatched his hand away and lent back in his chair, twisting his fingers together as he had done that first evening together, refusing to meet Sherlock's eyes – though for once, Sherlock was not remotely happy about this.

'You're holding yourself back,' he observed, careful to keep any trace of censure from his voice. 'Why does the idea of having magic frighten you so much? I understand it's new, and strange, but –'

'It's not who I am,' John interrupted. 'It just –'

'I hate to disappoint you,' Sherlock drawled, with deliberate sarcasm, 'but your magic is no indication of abnormality. In possessing it, you are distinctly, boringly normal. It is far more common to have magic that centres round healing, or plants, or the weather, than it is to have high magic as the master does. It would be stranger still should you have no magic at all.' He studied John for a second, and realised that John was still resisting the idea of having magical ability. _Judging by what he's said regarding it, his denial is linked to self-image, who he thinks he is..._

_Ah._

'Are you a good doctor, John?' he asked bluntly. The doctor in question started in surprise at the apparent non sequitur, but then looked directly, defiantly, at Sherlock.

'Very good,' he answered firmly.

'And a good soldier?' Sherlock continued.

'I – yes. I was.'

'What made you good at both professions?' Sherlock continued, eying John carefully. 'One might argue that doctoring and soldiering are antithetical – one would cancel out the other. Killing on the one hand and curing on the other.'

John propped his head on one hand thoughtfully. 'I suppose they complemented each other. Both of them in their own ways deal with life and death, and surprisingly enough being a soldier is sometimes about trying to save a life. It's not just killing work. And sometimes with medicine, despite everything we do, we can't hold death back. In each profession you're at the mercy of fate, despite everything.'

Sherlock smiled, knowing he'd found his solution in John's slightly incoherent answer. 'Some men, in becoming a doctor or soldier, would develop a God complex, holding the power of life and death in their hands.' John looked right at him, and had Sherlock known how brightly his own eyes were shining, he would undoubtedly have looked away. But he didn't know, and John continued to look into them.

'But not you, John,' Sherlock continued. 'Being a doctor and a soldier only served to remind you of how little you know, how helpless you are against the vagaries of fate, as you term them. To know that you do all you can, and yet at the end of the day forces greater than yourself are at work. That's why magic frightens you. It's a powerful, dangerous force, greater than you, and yet you can control it and not the other way around. You've been granted power when it's the last thing a man like you seeks out. You do not see the glories of power, only its duties and obligations.'

John stopped appreciating the beauty of Sherlock's eyes, despite what the rest of him looked like, and stared at the beastly face in shock. Sherlock met his stare steadily, until at last John flushed, and looked downwards. Sherlock hesitated a moment, but then extended a gnarled finger, and very gently positioned it under John's chin, forcing him to look up at Sherlock again.

'You see me so well,' Sherlock murmured as affectionately and tenderly as possible, considering the low rumbling growl that constituted his beastly voice. 'You see the master so well, and yet you cannot see yourself.'

The shock faded from John's face a little, softening the sheen in his eyes and the set of his jaw. And then a peculiar thing happened. The firelight seemed to flicker, warp the air around them, so that for a moment Sherlock could have sworn it was not his claw touching John's face, but his own long pale human hand.

But the moment passed, and Sherlock found himself, still in beast form, crouched by John's side, the fire blazing steadily.

John was still looking at him, a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. Sherlock smiled, a wide smile that showed far too many teeth, but John did not show any revulsion. 'You have power, John,' he carried on. 'But magic is not infallible, nor does it grant omnipotence. You can heal, but there are limits to what you can accomplish – you cannot heal too often, or too much. And you remember what I said about the Power of Three? Forces greater than yourself must maintain balance in the universe, and you can be sure that if you abuse what gifts you have been given, you will pay the price. Magic comes with its own set of rules and responsibilities.'

Sherlock ceased speaking, suddenly feeling shaky, upset. He talked a good game about the responsibilities that came with magical ability, but for all the instruction and advice given to him by Mama and Mycroft, he hadn't given a damn about rules and regulations in his careless curse-breaking days. Magic was a tool to be used as far as he was concerned, a way to stave off boredom, little more than that.

By all the Gods, how he had paid for his arrogance!

Sherlock had momentarily forgotten the purpose of his little lecture, so caught up in self-recrimination was he, so that the _pulse _that tugged at his heart came as a distinct surprise. John took his hand away from Sherlock's long twisted arm, where it had been resting unnoticed, and sank back limply in his chair, though he did not pass out.

Sherlock glanced over his friend quickly to make sure he was all right, and then tore the bloody bandage away from his limb. It was fully healed, not even a patchwork of scars remaining to remind him of the injury. Thank heavens – explaining away a wound identical to that of his 'servant' to John would have been remarkably awkward.

'Well done,' he said, not bothering to keep the admiration from his voice. 'You're a strong, natural healer. Mrs Hudson will be overjoyed. And I daresay your griffin friend will benefit from your gifts at some point.'

John, though exhausted-looking, perked up at that. 'Raghnaid! Of course, her wing...' He tried to stand, but sank back with a gasp of fatigue. Sherlock regarded him worriedly – John had to take it easy tomorrow, he would instruct Mrs Hudson to take extra care of him.

'Your stamina will improve with practice,' Sherlock informed him. 'But you should leave healing the griffin for when your strength returns. Now, you must sleep.'

John sighed, and leaned back in the chair. 'Okay. Would you fetch me a blanket?'

Sherlock glared at him. 'I meant in your bed! Sleeping in a chair will be of no great benefit to you.'

'Don't care,' John muttered. 'Tired.'

It was Sherlock's turn to sigh. Then an idea occurred to him – it would mean taking a great liberty, but needs must. Or maybe he simply wished to remain close to John for a little longer. Probably both. 'May I carry you?' he asked.

John yawned, already half-asleep and not really paying attention. 'Sure.'

Carefully, before the exhausted man could reconsider, Sherlock got one long arm behind John's shoulders, the other behind his knees and hoisted him out of the chair. John snapped back awake with a jerk.

'What the –'

'Remain still,' Sherlock cautioned him, and carefully carried him over to the bed before placing him down on the soft mattress and pillows. John laid back, equal parts grateful and embarrassed, judging by the expression on his face. But there was no fear or disgust there, Sherlock observed.

'Sleep now,' he instructed, stepping away from the bed, and bending to right the table. The broken glass had already vanished, thanks to Mrs Hudson's cleaning spells.

John, already dozing, woke up a little and turned towards him. 'You will come and see me again?'

'I will,' Sherlock reassured him. 'Our secret.' He hesitated before speaking again, trying to shape a most foreign feeling – of gratitude, no less – into words. 'And – thank you. For healing me.'

'You're welcome,' John murmured. 'By the way, don't come and stare at me while I'm asleep. It's weird.'

'Maybe I am weird,' Sherlock muttered in response. John chuckled quietly at that.

'You are, but I don't mind that. Sleep well – and sweet dreams. Dream of something that would make you happy...'

His voice faded away, and just as quickly and easily as he had awoken, John had returned to slumber. Mindful of John's request not to stare at him while he was asleep, Sherlock stepped outside his room and closed the door gently. He lent against the wood, feeling almost as drained as his friend.

Without conscious thought, he raised his clawed hand – the right one, the one John had grasped – up to his eyes and stared at it, remembering how John had caught hold of him, as though the beast in front of him were no monster, but just another friend of the good doctor's, a friend he had feelings for, a friend he was concerned for.

The shiver that went through Sherlock' beastly body then, and which continued to thrum throughout his limbs all through what remained of the night had nothing to do with self-revulsion. It was comprised of hope, joy, and something indefinable that lurked in his chest, around his heart, a delicious ache, a pain that was bliss, something Sherlock had never felt before, that was new and exciting and fearful. It was not the physical desire he had been experiencing, not exactly – it was something that belonged to Sherlock's inner self, his spirit.

Sherlock went to his rooms then, and curled in upon himself in order to hold in this new, indescribable feeling. Eventually he slept, and dreamt, and in that dream, he was human and was holding John in his arms, the whole night long. And knew, somehow, that John was delighted by his embrace, that there was nowhere else his friend would rather be.

And Sherlock knew, in the midst of his vision that somehow, someday, his dream would come to pass.

* * *

**Author's notes: **no notes, just on with the show...


	23. Chapter 23

Brace yourselves, dear readers, I'm going over to the dark side...

* * *

**Elsewhere:**

The townhouse was an old Georgian building, well-maintained and tidy-looking, apparently indistinguishable from the ones on either side or the other houses that comprised the handsome old street. But the house that we are concerned with had a peculiar effect on people, even the dull-witted or unimaginative.

People would cross the street as they came to it, even if their journeys demanded that they remain on that side of the road. The postman, on his rare visits to the house, would deliver the post at a run, eager to get away as quickly as possible. Dogs would refuse to pass by it, the timid whimpering, the bold growling savagely. Even just a glance at it would raise the hairs on the backs of people's arms.

The reactions were intense, and completely irrational. The house was not remotely threatening or sinister in appearance. The owner and resident, a Mr Richard Brook, kept to himself for the most part, but was perfectly respectable and unfailingly polite whenever he encountered his neighbours. And yet the house produced a curious sensation of distortion, of abnormality, of _wrongness, _despite the fact that nothing untoward was visible.

And, yet, once they had walked past it, dogs and humans alike would completely forget about that strange, forbidding house. The postman would forget he had ever visited it once the letters were shoved through the letter box. No-one if asked would be able to describe it or say where it was located. Despite the strong impression it made on people, it was a House That Could Not Be Found.

Its one inhabitant, Mr Brook himself, made no strong impressions on anyone. Even his immediate neighbours, who usually saw him coming and going, and his financial advisor, whom he met with once every week since his return since a five-year sojourn abroad, would be hard-pressed to describe the man if required to do so. Whenever he entered a room, the room somehow became emptier. He was, in the words of Jane Austen, a man whom everyone spoke well of, and nobody cared about.

Which was precisely the way the man in question preferred it. He had gone to great lengths to perfect the ordinary, harmless, unmemorable persona that he trotted out in public. Only the select few got the big show of his true personality. Amongst them was a former army colonel, dishonourably discharged, who was a crack marksman, completely immoral and willing to do pretty much anything for a sufficient sum of money.

On the night in question, Mr Brook was in his study with this associate, one Sebastian Moran, who, it must be admitted, was having a torrid time of it. There was much ranting, raving, screaming, throwing of heavy objects and magical curses being flung around. Mr Brook, in contrast to his public persona, was pitching a fit in the manner unique to small children and the totally insane.

'I'm sorry, sir,' Moran muttered as his employer paused for breath – he still had lungs, at least, Moran thought irreverently. 'But we lost track of her two days ago and none of our spells have helped to find her – she's found some way to shield herself.'

'Oh, bloody _brilliant_,' the man known as Mr Brook raved. 'Just dandy! I spend five fucking years in Hell to get my sticky paws on that artefact, and then that thieving _bitch _happens along, nabs it and buggers off into the blue! Memo to me, memo to me: _dismember _you if you don't find her, slice her into ribbons and get it back!'

Moran kept his face perfectly blank, not without some effort. He was cold, violent, calculating, ruthless and had many more brutal personality traits, but even he quailed before his employer's darker moods. Possibly because Moran had seen on numerous occasions what happened to anyone who happened to be in Brook's way during them.

'I'll find her sir, it'll just take time,' Moran responded implacably. 'She says that the artefact will be destroyed if we go after her or try to hurt her, so we need to be subtle about it. But I have some talented men working on the issue.'

'Talented, you say? It'll take time, you say? Choose your next t-word carefully, Sebby, or it'll be _termination,' _his employer drawled, the whites of his eyes showing as he bent back to stare at the ceiling, palms pressed together in a mockery of prayer. 'On second thoughts, that's boring. _Boooooooooring! _Maybe I'll get inventive. Like I did with Wilkins.' His empty eyes snapped over to focus themselves onto Moran like a gun sight.

Moran couldn't help but look away a trifle nervously. Wilkins was the security guard who had been comprehensively outwitted by the 'thieving bitch' and allowed his boss's precious artefact to be stolen. His fate had been a terrible and gruesome one.

Still, Moran couldn't help but have a sort of professional respect for the woman in question. His boss had used her but had failed to control her, and anyone who could thwart his boss was someone not to be trifled with.

But neither, for that matter, was Sebastian Moran.

'I said I'll find her. That means I will,' he said, quietly, respectfully, but with total surety. His boss ducked down in order to stare up into Moran's carefully lowered eyes.

'You'd better, Sebastian,' he cooed. 'Because if you don't...' his voice trailed off and Moran realised those empty, rolling eyes had swung away from him and zoned in on something across the room.

'Ooooh!' The delighted sound might have issued from a child suddenly presented with a huge ice-cream. '_What _is this little development?'

Mr Brook twirled round and minced over to the mantelpiece, on which sat what looked to Moran's un-magical gaze like a large radioactive rock. It was actually a piece of obsidian, rough but with glassy planes that glowed and pulsed with unearthly, blood-red fire. His boss ran caressing fingers over it, talking to it lovingly.

'Oh, my pretty! You're looking much more pallid than you were. _What, _oh what, has that nasty little virgin been doing to you?'

Come to think of it, the angry reddish light from that stone had dimmed a bit recently, Moran realised, though he did not comprehend the significance of the development. 'Sir?' he asked cautiously.

Those dark eyes spiralled back towards him, but the rage that had been lurking in them was replaced with a mixture of delight, spite, and just a teensy bit of annoyance. 'A long time ago, Sebastian, I cast a little curse,' his boss sing-songed. 'It was one of my best efforts ever, a clever little curse for a not-so-clever little magician. I cast it just before I went to Hell, and when I got back it was still going strong. Disappointing really, he'd been such fun beforehand and it had stumped him. But now, it's been weakened.'

He turned back to the glowing red stone, the reptile smile that always boded ill for someone blossoming across his face. 'This means that Sherlock has begun to crack the curse at loooong last. Forget Adler for the time being, this is _much _more intriguing. We need to do a little reconnaissance, find out who'd be daft enough to fall in love with that frigid curse-breaker. And more to the point, who'd be able to make _him _love _them.' _

Richard Brook, whom Sebastian Moran and the select few knew as James Moriarty, criminal mastermind and darkest of dark magicians, chuckled and rubbed his hands together with glee.

'Oh, Sherlock. You're back in the game. But soon mate, it'll be _check_. Checkity-check-check-check.'

* * *

**Author's Notes: **The phrase 'reptile smile' is taken from the song _I'll Never Give It Up _by the brilliant Richard Thompson. Have a look for the lyrics, they remind me a great deal of Sherlock and Moriarty.

Worryingly, it was a great deal easier to write Moriarty than it was to write Sherlock. I think because the way I write them, everything about Moriarty is false, everything is an act, whereas everything Sherlock does is truthful, deriving from the crazy chemistry that makes up who he is.

And on another note, my updates won't be as regular as they were before Christmas, as I've a fair amount of rewriting and reworking the plot to do, to incorporate the aspects of Sherlock's character revealed by _The Empty Hearse. _But I'll keep them coming, promise! Till next time!


	24. Chapter 24

Hello again, dear readers! Thanks hugely for the response to the last couple of chapters, it was a real encouragement. Just the one chapter today... but a long one! Except not much goes on, I'm setting the scene... Er, I'll just shut up and let you read now.

**Warnings: **some mild language. And John pleasuring himself, but I don't go into detail. I'm saving that for later ;-)

* * *

The days slid past quicker than ever, flowing like fast-moving water and one morning John realised he'd spent a whole month in the mansion.

Spring had arrived with enthusiasm, warming the air outside, scattering leaves and blossoms across the trees, and the birds in the garden warbled and sang in an ecstasy of joyful sound. Inside the mansion the mood was a little more serious and geared towards hard work and study, but the hope and the happiness brought by Sherlock and John's weakening of the curse was growing along with the buds on the trees. At least, John thought so.

It had been a busy time for everyone since Raghnaid had unwittingly informed them of Moriarty's return. John had spent several mornings going over the mansion and its grounds with Mrs Hudson, looking at what defences they had that could be enhanced, where traps and early warning systems could be installed and the best defensive positions the mansion possessed, should things come to fighting. In addition, he had spent a considerable amount of time with Sherlock, working in the library and researching defensive and protective magicks and spells, some straightforward (at least for Sherlock), others decidedly not.

Sherlock had also started to show him the network of hidden chambers and passages that ran throughout the mansion like the strands of some massive spider's web, and John had begun work on a rough map of them. To John's relief, Sherlock had not yet shown him the secret passage with the owl statue – he wasn't sure he could hide his prior knowledge of it. But Sherlock had shown him a great many secret exits, entrances and tunnels – and told him at least seventy times that if the mansion was attacked John was to get into the nearest tunnel and hide until Sherlock fetched him.

John had absolutely no intention of doing so if Sherlock and Raghnaid and Mrs Hudson were in danger, but he kept his mouth shut about that. He suspected it wouldn't go over well with anyone.

Hence not mentioning his resolution during his nightly chats with the 'servant', who had kept his promise and would slip into John's room to talk for a few minutes after John retired for the evening. John found himself dwelling on these nocturnal visits and his friend's monstrous shape quite a bit, perhaps because Sherlock's beast form was so dissimilar to his human self. It wasn't merely a matter of appearance: all Sherlock's fluid grace, his deep and melodious voice, his mannerisms (except perhaps his habitual eye–roll) was all obliterated when he was shaped like a beast. It made it much easier for John, who was no actor, to pretend Sherlock and the servant were two different beings. About the only thing that was consistent in both forms were his icy blue eyes, eyes that shone so brightly in both his human and his monstrous face. Beautiful, striking eyes.

The recollection of that eventful night spent by the fire with his friend, gazing into those glowing topaz orbs, always brought a smile to John's face. It was not the memory of his working magic that made him smile – it was sitting there, speaking to the monster he had been confronted with on his arrival in the mansion, and realising, really _knowing_, that it was no beast before him, that his best friend was in there, the man John had come to know and be infuriated by and like so much. It had convinced him, once and for all, that Sherlock was not a monster, but a man forced to look like one. A tactless, irritating, arrogant man, but a man all the same.

In fact, for a strange moment, as Sherlock had crouched before him that night, touching his face, John's vision had seemed to blur, so that he had momentarily seen Sherlock as a man, a man reaching up to touch him. But his eyesight had cleared almost immediately, revealing Sherlock-as-beast still there before him. John wondered if his vision had been due to tiredness or perhaps his own wishful thinking. But whatever it was, it served to strengthen his conviction that Sherlock was not in fact a beast.

John would sigh then, wishing Sherlock believed the same. The depth of his friend's self-loathing had surprised and then appalled him. Sherlock truly believed he was a monster; that he did not deserve or could not aspire to friendship and happiness. It certainly explained why John was supposed to keep his knowledge of the curse secret. Sherlock would have been horrified to have been exposed, and probably too ashamed to be friendly towards John, or even to keep working with him. And at least that explained why he had not told John the exact nature of his curse – Sherlock must suppose John would be frightened or revolted by him if he knew.

John, however, was definitely _not _afraid, and was beginning to wish Sherlock would confide in him about the curse – though he could understand his friend's reticence, given the humiliation he must feel. Hence John was glad that he found in their nightly visits the opportunity to slowly convince Sherlock that he was no monster, regardless of appearance.

'What's your name?' he had enquired the night after their adventure. The 'servant' had looked at him as though he'd lost his mind.

'I have none,' he'd growled impatiently. 'Nor do I want one.'

'I can't just go "hey, you," every time I want to speak to you,' John protested.

'I don't mind,' Sherlock said flippantly.

'I do!' John answered in his turn. 'You asked me last night how you become "more", more than a beast, well, this is one way. If you keep calling yourself a monster it's no wonder you think you are one.'

Sherlock had remained silent at that, for such a long time that John turned away from him to examine the books on his bookshelf for the sake of something to do. At last, John turned from the books to find that Sherlock had come to stand next to him.

'What do you wish to call me, then?' he asked gruffly. John shrugged.

'Do you have any preferences?' he'd asked, only for Sherlock to shrug in his turn. John cast his mind around for ideas, and as he did so his eye landed on a book on the shelf: _Creatures of Myth and Legend in the British Isles_, by Emmanuel Sigerson.

'How about after this guy?' he'd asked, pulling the book from its resting place. 'It seems appropriate.' The 'servant' pulled an even more grotesque face than usual.

'I am _not _being called Emmanuel!' he protested indignantly.

'Sigerson, then,' John suggested. 'Seems inoffensive enough and I won't have to keep referring to you as a beast.' Seeing Sherlock's hesitation, he'd added, 'please, let me call you by _some _name. I like you, I don't want to keep thinking of you as the servant or the monster.'

There was a perceptible pause, before Sherlock answered, with deliberate nonchalance, 'Sigerson it is, then. If it makes you feel better.'

'It does,' John assured him. So the servant became Sigerson, though John took care never to mention the name when Sherlock was in human form. This wasn't difficult, as Sherlock never mentioned his monstrous alter ego to John, never spoke of him to Mrs Hudson when John was within earshot.

Still, John was glad that Sherlock was no longer a nameless creature when labouring under his curse. Giving his beastly persona a name distanced Sherlock from the realm of brute beasts, John felt – gave him a sense that he wasn't merely some hideous creature, but someone worthy of bearing a name, that he was worthy of having someone call him by name. At least, John hoped so. Sherlock was inscrutable at the best of times, and especially when his human features were morphed into his monstrous countenance.

So Sigerson's visits continued, and each night John would confide a little more in him, and do a little more to try and draw him out of his self-hatred. He hoped dearly that he was succeeding, that Sherlock would begin to realise that he was no monster.

And after Sigerson left...

Even John's nights were busy. For when he slept he dreamed, and always, always, he dreamed of Sherlock – Sherlock the man, never the animal.

Instead of dreaming of him every few nights, as he had when he first arrived at the mansion, John now saw Sherlock every single night in his dreams. Sometimes they walked together in the gardens, sometimes they wandered together through the pocket dimensions, those John had seen before and those he hadn't. In some dreams they had left the mansion, and were together somewhere in London, or in John's little flat. But they were always together; there was not a moment when Sherlock left John's side – a distinct departure from the night when he had awakened suddenly to find Sherlock gazing down upon him. In that dream, Sherlock had turned to leave him, looking desperately sad, and John had caught hold of him, asked him not to go. He had no need to ask that of his dream-friend now.

Sherlock's moods varied in John's dreams. Sometimes he was melancholy, sitting quietly, watching John's movements with a wistful, longing look in those stunning eyes. At other times he was mischievous and merry, laughing and catching hold of John, spinning him round before running off, beckoning to John to catch him up. And in others he was... possessive, or something very like it, catching hold of John and holding him flush against his lean body, refusing to let go no matter how John struggled in his grasp – not that he ever struggled very hard, or for very long.

And in others... John blushed to think of them. There was one he remembered with particular clarity. They had been standing by the sea, on a warm swathe of sand, the wind ruffling Sherlock's dark curls. John had turned to look at the waves for a moment and turned back to his friend to find Sherlock sans clothing, standing naked before him.

Desire had taken hold of John then, with all the force of the winds and tides. Desire for the beautiful man standing unclothed before him. Because Sherlock _was _beautiful, all lean, elegant limbs and hard muscle, all sinewy grace. And nestled between his thighs was the unmistakeable proof that Sherlock was a man, the long, hard cock bringing renewed heat to John's face – and to every other part of him.

'You're staring,' Sherlock had observed mildly. John, mouth gone very dry, could only nod.

Sherlock stepped closer to him, and in contrast to his quiet voice his blue eyes were blazing with... with... longing? The idea made John jerk in surprise. Did this stunning man feel the same way about him? Did Sherlock _want_ him?

John had no more time in which to think about it, as one of Sherlock's hands went to clasp the back of his neck. Slowly, Sherlock had brought his face down towards John's, never breaking eye contact. 'You don't see yourself, do you?' Sherlock had asked, and before John could formulate a response, he felt the lightest of touches on his lips, as Sherlock pressed his mouth to John's. The merest, gentlest of kisses and yet John trembled all over to feel it. His whole body was _aching _for Sherlock's touch, for his warmth, for his hardness.

And then he woke. And he was so hard it was painful. He reached a hand down to work at himself, thinking of Sherlock's beauty as he did so. Within moments he came so fiercely it brought tears to his eyes.

_So much for being boringly, completely straight, _he sighed inwardly, before going to clean himself up. He, John Watson, had sexual longings for a man so intense that they made every other instance of desire in his life look like puppy love. There was no denying it any longer. He wondered what on earth had prompted him to start wanting and desiring Sherlock. He didn't think it was merely that Sherlock was the only person 'available' to him, as it were. It felt much stronger and deeper than that – if it were merely that his sexual drives needed an outlet, surely fantasies of women would partially satisfy that.

Currently, there was only one person starring in John's erotic fantasies. Any attempt to daydream about anyone else left him unsatisfied at best and totally cold and unmoved at worst. As he had no idea if Sherlock reciprocated his feelings, or even if he was capable of doing so, John did his best to repress or at the very least conceal what he was feeling.

But it was so difficult. A dozen times a day he would catch himself staring longingly at Sherlock, at the way his hands moved, at his long lean body, that stunning face, aching to feel the softness of his skin overlying the hardness of muscle. More often than not, Sherlock would catch him out, daydreaming, thinking of the erotic pleasures that delighted and tormented him each night. John would flush, and return to whatever it was he was doing, conscious of Sherlock's speculative gaze towards him.

In other words, he was fucked. How he wished it could be in a literal sense.

* * *

John had other things to worry about than his suddenly flexible sexuality. Further efforts by Sherlock to show him Greg and Molly and Harry in the mirror had all failed, and Sherlock concluded that Mycroft must have performed a shielding spell to hide John's friends and family from anyone trying to spy on them by magic. John was saddened by this loss of contact, however superficial, though the idea of Sherlock's brother looking after everyone was a comforting one. And speaking of being looked after...

The protective instincts of Sherlock, Raghnaid and Mrs Hudson had all kicked into high gear since they realised Moriarty was still a factor in breaking the curse, and their over-protectiveness centred round John, to his simultaneous appreciation and embarrassment. Mostly embarrassment.

He almost never had a minute to himself these days, even when he wasn't working with Sherlock or Mrs Hudson on defending the mansion. Walking round the grounds, reading in the library, even when he tried to escape into one of the pocket dimensions, someone was always with him. Sherlock would lecture him on defensive magicks, Mrs Hudson would cluck and fuss, Raghnaid would chirrup at him in commiserating fashion but refuse to leave him until someone else turned up for guard duty. The only time he had any privacy was when he nipped to the bathroom – he'd started taking marathon baths for precisely that reason, definitely ignoring the fact that Raghnaid was usually crouched patiently outside the door.

John hadn't protested about being babysat – yet. He knew everyone was on edge, but it was galling to be considered helpless, the weak link in the chain. He had been a good soldier and knew he could handle himself in combat or in a street brawl, but fighting with magic – against a certified psychopath, no less – was beyond him.

For that reason he had thrown himself into the research with Sherlock, hoping to learn about magical defences and attacks, but although he grasped the theory easily enough the practical side of things went dismally. 'I was a soldier, you'd think I'd have _some _aptitude for this sort of thing,' he sighed, after failing to cast the simplest of defensive charms for the sixth time in a row.

'You're also a doctor,' Sherlock had observed with a shrug of resignation. 'It's the strongest part of you, John, the desire to heal, not the desire to fight. It's your very nature, and something you cannot alter.'

Maybe so, but John wished he could help in protecting the mansion and its inhabitants somehow. But healing had its advantages. A few days after his encounter with the 'servant', he had approached Sherlock about healing Raghnaid's still-injured wing.

'I was wondering if you'd bring that up,' Sherlock had drawled, as John fidgeted a little. At John's obvious discomfort, he'd raised an elegant eyebrow. 'Healing is one of the oldest, most benevolent forms of magic there is, and yet it terrifies you, far more so than those defensive spells we tried, which are infinitely more powerful,' Sherlock had mused aloud. 'Why does it make you so nervous?'

'Are they?' John had asked abruptly. 'Are those spells we tried for defence more powerful than healing? Are they more powerful than Mrs Hudson's magic, come to that? I'm not sure that they are.'

Sherlock had not answered at once, thinking about it for a while. At last he responded quietly, 'I don't know. I never really thought about which sorts of magic are most powerful. John nodded his understanding, and Sherlock had continued: 'but powerful or not, you may be able to heal Raghnaid, which would be a distinct advantage for when things come to fighting. Griffins are fierce warriors.'

With that thought in mind, they had consulted Raghnaid about the prospect of mending her wing, with Mrs Hudson translating for them as always. Raghnaid had not bothered to answer, but had jumped on John, knocked him over and started nuzzling him, making little noises of delight as he tried to fend her off.

'I'd say she's in favour of the idea,' Sherlock had informed his friend as John tried to pull himself out from under the griffin, only for her to clamp a claw round his leg and hold him in position as she affectionately worried at one of his shirt buttons.

'Oh, you think so?' John asked dryly as Raghnaid succeeded in pulling off the unfortunate button, which she promptly and accidentally swallowed.

'Oh no, I've not got any buttons in my workbox to match that shirt!' Mrs Hudson wailed as Raghnaid paused in her nuzzling, trying to work out if buttons tasted nice.

'Just sew any old button on, Mrs Hudson, I don't mind,' John advised, at last managing to crawl out from underneath the griffin.

Sherlock groaned. 'Could we get back to the subject at hand, please? Namely, working magic, _not _bloody buttons!'

'Sherlock!' Mrs Hudson cried. 'Language!'

'John,' Sherlock said in a low voice, 'fetch that longbow that's hanging in the library, would you?'

After a bit more button-related conversation and eight threats of extreme violence from Sherlock, they made their way to John's favourite bench outside, in deference to the lovely spring weather, and John and Sherlock sat down on it and got to work. Somehow sensing John's abiding fear, Sherlock slid his arms around the other man, laying his hands atop John's. John started as Sherlock embraced him, but Sherlock held him tightly, refusing to let him pull away.

'I know you're still a little afraid,' Sherlock murmured. 'Remember, I'm here with you. Remember what I told you: I'll help you, I won't let anything happen to you or Raghnaid.'

John had smiled at that, even though Sherlock couldn't see it. Surrendering to an impulse of his own, he leaned back against Sherlock's chest, mischievously noting the hardness of it through Sherlock's thin shirt. The sinewy strength of Sherlock's arms, the tenderness of his hands upon John's own... John pressed his thighs together as his thoughts began to take a dangerous turn. His desire towards Sherlock had not abated a whit since the evening when they stood clasping hands, and his recent dreams had only exacerbated it. And John's other feelings towards his friend seemed to be growing too...

Determinedly, he forced all such thoughts from his head, and focused his vision on Raghnaid. 'Let me touch your wing,' he said softly, and Raghnaid sat by his feet. Very gently, John took hold of the injured part of the limb, Sherlock's hands mimicking his movements.

'Now,' Sherlock whispered to him, 'close your eyes. Imagine your magic inside you...'

John smiled again as Sherlock uttered almost exactly the same instructions as he had the night he had come to John's room in beast form and gashed his arm. He did as he was told, but instead of picturing magic, he focused on Sherlock's arms around him, holding him, keeping him safe, keeping his magic from hurting anyone or spiralling out of control. He imagined it moving through their interlinked hands, his own short strong fingers and Sherlock's skilful ones, mending Raghnaid's wing...

It came far more easily this time, the _pull _at something deep inside him, the sensation of heat in his hands, and then, the sure knowledge that he had done as he intended, that the injury was mended. Tired, though not completely exhausted as he had been the previous times, he released his grip on Raghnaid's wing and watched, quietly gratified, as the wing that had previously trailed on the ground straightened, resumed its natural position held along Raghnaid's back. 'It worked,' he murmured.

'Of course it did,' Sherlock murmured back, keeping his arms close around him. John leaned his head against the other man's shoulder, grateful for his presence. Raghnaid backed away from them, and then, carefully, stretched her wings out to their full twenty-foot span. And then with a screech of what sounded like delight, she leapt into the sky.

'Show-off,' pronounced Sherlock, but he smiled to see Raghnaid take her first flight since she had lost her family. Her movements were a little jerky and uncoordinated, and she managed only a few minutes in the air, circling the mansion with long, ponderous flaps of her wings, before landing heavily back before them all, but all in all the experiment appeared to have been a raging success.

Certainly it was in Raghnaid's opinion. She came forward and placed her great head on John's knee, a huge tear rolling from one eye to splash on the paving stones beneath the bench.

'Oh, my dear girl, don't cry!' and the blurry shape of Mrs Hudson came forward to embrace her around the neck. John stroked her head, and Sherlock nudged her with a foot, somehow managing to do it in an affectionate manner. Raghnaid sang a few soft notes, and John knew, without Mrs Hudson translating, that she was saying thank you.

'You're welcome,' he answered, and Raghnaid opened her golden eyes to regard him lovingly. There was respect lingering in those orbs as well as fondness, and John realised that he had restored not only the joys of flight for Raghnaid, but had given her the best chance of obtaining justice for her slain family. Raghnaid injured was formidable enough, but now she was brought back to full health, able to fly, to ambush her enemies, to reconnoitre for them all, she was truly a fearsome opponent. He felt glad she was on their side.

'We must plan a few reconnaissance missions when you have become re-accustomed to flight, Raghnaid,' Sherlock informed her, and she let out a squawk of agreement, before gently shaking off Mrs Hudson and taking another running jump up into the air, this time striving for altitude. They all watched as she soared upwards, her confidence growing as she gained height.

'I didn't mean right this minute!' Sherlock yelled after her, though he didn't sound terribly outraged. John chuckled, and made to stand so that he could watch the griffin more easily. He faltered as he gained his feet, and was startled to feel Sherlock's arm around his waist, holding him upright. His heart started thudding erratically in his chest, and his legs felt distinctly shaky. John risked a glance at Sherlock, only to see him preoccupied in watching Raghnaid. Abashed, John turned to look at Raghnaid once more, not seeing the quick flick of Sherlock's eyes towards him, or the faintest tint of redness in Sherlock's pale cheeks.

* * *

That evening found them as usual in their little sitting room. Raghnaid was fast asleep on the rug, worn out by the day's exertions. Sherlock, in one of what John termed his 'slightly-less-unusual-lately' displays of consideration, had kept his feet off her at first, not wanting to disturb her. But she woke shortly after they had sat down and nibbled at his toes until he had propped his feet up on her back as usual. Raghnaid had settled back down to sleep with a grunt of contentment at that, disregarding Sherlock's obligatory huff of annoyance.

Atypically, neither Sherlock nor John was in the mood for much conversation, both preferring to sit in companionable silence and muse over their own thoughts and ideas.

Though Sherlock was preoccupied with reconfiguring his defensive strategies now Raghnaid could fly again, his mind kept returning to John's urgent questions about whether certain types of magic were really more powerful than others. Sherlock's first impulse had been to scoff and roll his eyes at those questions – of _course _such high magic, _his _magic, his brother's magic, was more powerful than mending broken crockery and healing cuts and bruises. In his time he had come across, and even performed, defensive spells that could literally turn people into stone, transport them halfway around the world, summon demons to drag people screaming into dark, forbidden places. How could the magic of a healer like John or a henwife like Mrs Hudson compare to that?

Sherlock had been about to voice these thoughts, when a memory had returned unbidden to him. Moriarty, his high-pitched sneer grating across Sherlock's finely tuned ear. 'That's your problem, you want everything to be _clever_,' his nemesis had spat contemptuously during one of their confrontations. 'You don't appreciate the beauteous simplicity of my plans!'

Sherlock was not quite sure why that memory stopped him from voicing his opinion to John. But it had, and he had lied glibly about never really considering what magicks were stronger or greater than others. Funnily enough, the conversation had brought his mother to mind – something that had been happening quite a bit lately. Her magicks had centred on little, simple things like birds and trees. And yet he remembered as a child other magic-handlers, some of them quite famous amongst their limited circles, coming to talk with and consult her, to ask her advice. More than had ever visited his father, the wielder of high magic, if Mycroft was to be believed.

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully. Had he misjudged yet another aspect of magic and sorcery? He had always believed himself to be a great magician, heir to some of the most remarkable magic-handlers who had ever lived, and yet the mistakes and misjudgements he had made during his magical career were mounting up. His neglect of the Power of Three, the most fundamental magical law in existence, his failure to repel Moriarty's last, best curse, his misunderstandings of how to break the malignant spell placed on him and the mansion... the list was thoroughly depressing. He would have to make a better showing of himself if he were to break the curse and thwart Moriarty once and for all.

Well, he didn't think his old arrogance and over-confidence would hinder him this time round. He had undergone too thorough a humbling these past five years to take anything for granted – and even if he did, John would pull him back down to earth with a sarcastic comment or two. He smiled wryly at the idea. The only other person who had dared talk to him like that had been Irene Adler, for all of two weeks.

Adler... unexpectedly, Sherlock recalled a throwaway comment made by her about a week after her startling arrival. 'You think you're smarter than I am, that you can't be caught out,' she had laughed, not entirely humorously. 'That's your problem, you know. You over-think things. You want everything to be clever.'

_You want everything to be clever. _The exact same words as Moriarty had used.

Another individual might have dismissed it as coincidence, but he was Sherlock Holmes, accustomed to finding nuances and connections in the smallest of details. Adler had been clever and perceptive, true, but for her to highlight his great weakness just as Moriarty had, despite only seeing him for a few hours each day, sometimes less, and using identical words as his nemesis, moreover... had Adler been Moriarty's opening salvo? Was she his way of gaining information about Sherlock and the mansion after a lengthy hiatus?

The more he thought about it, the more likely a possibility it appeared. He had been so stunned, so overcome by the presence of a guest in the mansion after so long and later so enamoured of her wit and cunning that he had failed to lend her arrival a sufficient amount of scepticism, of objective analysis. And later of course, after he had foolishly revealed the exact nature of his curse, her abject disgust and fear had both devastated and enraged him – and distracted him.

Sherlock grimaced to himself. Emotion was the most dangerous and most corrosive thing he could possibly conceive of in relation to his intellect, and Adler had manipulated his feelings like a true professional, he had been aware of that even whilst she was doing it. Desperate after five miserable years, he had allowed it to happen. And the end result? His near total-despair, his complete certainty that he was defeated, that the curse would never be broken. _He _had nearly broken.

How Moriarty must have laughed at _that _denouement. He would have laughed himself silly at Sherlock's pain and anguish.

But Sherlock hadn't broken. Something had come to heal him.

Sherlock's eyes strayed across to the man sitting opposite him. _A healer through and through_, he thought affectionately. _His nature is strong but not violent, for all his soldiering. And manipulation is foreign to that character – he is Adler's structural opposite, in so many ways. _He frowned slightly. His emotions surrounding John were already far stronger, more powerful than anything he had ever felt for Adler. Was he really doing the right thing in opening himself up again, in risking his skills at deduction, analysis, reasoning by allowing sentiment into the equation?

Sherlock's frown deepened as a truly disturbing thought manifested itself in his brain. What if John was phase two of Moriarty's plan to destroy him? What if his deep, strong feelings for the man were all part of one of Moriarty's clever manipulations?

The simple, mere idea that John had been tainted by Moriarty's malevolence brought beads of sweat to Sherlock's forehead, as though the Devil himself had touched Sherlock's face and left his shallow imprint there. Sherlock gritted his teeth. He didn't think he could bear it if John was just another of Moriarty's games – he didn't have the strength to stomach such a revelation.

_Put the brakes on, _his rational self said irritably. _Don't be ridiculous. The man's as straight as an arrow. If there was a shred of true evil in him, you would know it by now – besides, the wards around the grounds would have kept him out if he were wicked. _It was true, the wards along the walls were all powerfully spelled against anything truly malicious_._ He'd had to lower the defences slightly to allow Adler in when she turned up at the gate; she hadn't been cruel or evil – at least not much – but as a professional thief her ethics were questionable. If only he'd taken that as a warning sign!

_But the wards needed no lowering for John, _his rational side continued. _If he is part of Moriarty's little games,_ _he doesn't know it. _

Sherlock glanced at John, who was staring thoughtfully into the fire. 'John,' he said as calmly as possible, given his sudden fear about John's presence in the mansion. 'How exactly did you come to find your way here? Your appearance here was unexpected to say the least, and I've been wondering how it came about.'

John glanced over at him, obviously casting his mind back to that fateful night. 'I didn't find the mansion, to be honest,' he said plainly. 'We were all attacked by one of those creatures in the woods. Greg, Molly and me fought it off, and Anderson scarpered into the woods. We went looking for him and found him huddled up against the mansion wall. And the rest you know.'

Sherlock only nodded in response, but inwardly his relief was so powerful it flooded his body like an opiate. John _hadn't _been corrupted by Sherlock's nemesis – if anyone had been infected with Moriarty's evil, it had been that idiot Anderson. But his beloved friend was as good and straightforward as Sherlock had always believed.

John could be lying, of course, Sherlock mused. But something deep inside him thought not. He had faith in John.

Although – _beloved_? Where the hell had that come from?

'How did you manage to fight one of those creatures, anyway?' he asked hastily, trying to distract himself. John squirmed a little in his chair.

'I, er, jumped on its back and got it round the neck and started kicking it.'

Sherlock let his deadpan stare do the talking for him.

'Well I had to try _something_. It was going to kill Molly,' John protested. 'Besides, it wasn't just me. Lestrade hit it with a tree branch and Molly threw stones.'

'You're an idiot,' Sherlock informed him bluntly. 'Those – _things –_ are concentrated violence and hatred. They offer an ugly death to everyone they meet. And when you meet one, you engage it in single combat. I can't decide if you're exceptionally brave or if you're just out of your funny little mind.'

'If it's not the latter, it will be in short order,' John remarked with familiar exasperation. 'What was I meant to do? Outrunning it was impossible, hiding was no good and those things can probably climb well, so heading up a tree wasn't an option. Fighting was all we _could _do.'

'Except for Anderson,' Sherlock pointed out. John rolled his eyes, Sherlock-fashion.

'Don't remind me. Remind me to throttle him if I ever see him again.'

'You'll have to get in line. His violin-smashing exploits demand vengeance,' Sherlock muttered darkly, and was rewarded with a chuckle from John. Privately he decided whatever punitive action he would take against Anderson would be of the milder variety. Moron or not, the man had brought John to him.

'Will we have to face down those creatures if Moriarty shows up again?' John asked suddenly, and Sherlock set aside all ideas about minor, petty vengeances in favour of focusing on his current curse-breaking efforts.

'More than likely,' Sherlock answered honestly. 'They're his creations, after all. But they'll have to get past the wards placed around the grounds first. I've been reinforcing them lately, and it will take time to get past them, even for a dark magician like Moriarty. There will be plenty of time for you to hide from them.'

'Who said anything about hiding?' John asked indignantly. 'If there's fighting to be done you can be damn sure I'll do it. I'm not leaving you on your own against whatever Moriarty throws at us.'

'Don't be absurd,' Sherlock snapped back, and then, as he saw the flash in John's eyes, decided to soften his words. 'I meant that when Moriarty does come – and he will – he'll come for me. Anyone who gets in his way will be obliterated. Strategically it makes more sense for you and Mrs Hudson and possibly Raghnaid as well to go to ground and defend yourselves against whatever comes at you.'

John wasn't mollified, however. 'You mean for me to watch helplessly from the sidelines while you risk life and limb? Forget it, Sherlock. This is my fight now, just as much as it is yours.'

Sherlock glared back. 'Your fight? Since when? You were forced into staying here, you owe nobody your allegiance.'

'It's my fight because you're my friend, and so are Mrs Hudson and Raghnaid,' John answered firmly. 'So for the last bloody time, I'm not going to hide away if there's trouble.'

Sherlock looked at him, saw the increasingly recognizable expression of absolute determination that John's face wore so naturally. 'I don't understand,' he said before he could stop himself.

'Neither do I, really,' John sighed, the resolve in his face fading a little as he contemplated the puzzle. 'Perhaps it's Stockholm Syndrome – where a captive comes to sympathise with their captor,' he explained, in response to Sherlock's quizzical look.

Sherlock scowled. 'To hell with _that. _Whatever exists between us, it's not a bloody _syndrome. _It was meant to happen.'

John blinked in surprise. 'You've been here alone a long time, Sherlock,' he pointed out quietly. 'Except for Mrs Hudson, of course. Surely you would've been glad of anyone who came to stay here.'

'Don't talk nonsense,' Sherlock snapped. 'You know my opinion of humanity in general. It's certain I would have been driven insane within an hour by any of your associates – except possibly that Lestrade of yours. He seemed tolerable. But the fact remains that out of all the people in the world who could have found their way here, it was someone whose company I can tolerate with equanimity, which is a rare thing indeed. Destiny plays a role in all our lives, John Watson, and it's been at work here.'

'Thanks for that,' John answered dryly, though he smiled with amusement. 'Do you know, Mrs Hudson said something similar to me once?'

'It wouldn't surprise me. She's a great believer in what she calls "forces", for this, that and the other,' Sherlock muttered, though with less disdain than he would have employed a month ago. John grinned, and Sherlock felt his own mood lighten a little in response. It was astonishing how something as small as a smile or an approving word from John had so much power over him, he reflected in mild exasperation. The man was utterly oblivious to the hold he exerted over Sherlock, of course – those eyes, that saw so much in others, seemed to be blinded when trained upon himself.

_Contradiction upon contradiction, till I can barely work out what it is I feel towards him, _Sherlock thought. _Still, you are in good company, Sherlock. He is struggling with his feelings too._

Sherlock sighed at that. John's desire towards him was blatantly obvious, despite his pitiful attempts to conceal it. A dozen times a day Sherlock would observe as John's eyes unfocused, as his gaze travelled over Sherlock's body, his hands, his face, as the colour rose in his face, as his muscles tensed at Sherlock's merest touch. Sherlock had half a mind to hold up a match between them and see if it caught fire from the tension thrumming between them. Had he been free, had his curse been lifted, he would have wasted no time, but caught hold of John and taken him straight to the nearest bedroom.

He was fuzzy on what exactly they would _do _in the bedroom – his sexual experience was limited, to put it mildly – but it involved taking that stubborn, contrary, entrancing man in his arms and never letting go.

But Sherlock wasn't free, not yet.

So he choked down everything he wanted to say, everything he wanted to do to John, resolving yet again that whatever John was determined on, there would be no letting him join the fight to come. He would be protected above everything else – him and Mrs Hudson and even the featherbed. Many years ago, when he was a child, something malignant had come to the woods around the mansion, and the cost of driving it away had been incalculable. Sherlock could not bear it if history repeated itself, if he were to lose –

He cut off that line of thought ruthlessly, and turned his head in order to gaze into the fire once more. For a moment the flames leapt up and shone with an especial brilliance, before subsiding into their usual flickering and dancing amongst the logs arranged in the fireplace. Silence reigned once more over the little sitting room, as both men drifted back into their own musings, and as Raghnaid slept on peacefully.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Think of this as the calm before the storm, dear readers. Things are going to start happening in the next chapter or two or three... Till next time!


	25. Chapter 25

Hello again, dear readers! Well, after two years of waiting, _Sherlock _will be finishing its third series before we know it! Sob! And seeing as the last episode if Moffat-authored, no doubt there'll be another agonising cliffhanger in store... But before that, thanks to everyone who has followed, favourited and reviewed my story - and thanks **Nonimouse, **as I can't send you a message! So here's my next chapter. Remember when I said things were going to start happening? Well...

* * *

A few days after their discussion of sorts on John's role in the fight against Moriarty, the good doctor was, he was fairly certain, about to have a nervous breakdown unless he had a few minutes to himself. _Really _to himself, not with Raghnaid curled up unobtrusively (for a griffin) in the corner. Even sleep brought no respite these days. More than once he had been awakened by the soft opening or shutting of his bedroom door as someone checked on him in the middle of the night. Sigerson's evening visits had gradually lengthened until he was lingering for nearly a full hour in John's bedroom, and Raghnaid followed him around with the tenacity of a terrier hunting a rat.

She had followed him around the mansion for most of the morning, until, in a moment of inspiration brought on by desperation, he had headed into Mrs Hudson's kitchen, telling Raghnaid he felt like helping her for a little while, to take his mind off Moriarty _et al_. Raghnaid had escorted him to the kitchen, the changing of the guards had taken place and John had started to peel a few potatoes for dinner under Mrs Hudson's guidance.

The dear lady was soon distracted however – she was baking some of what she termed her 'special chocolate biscuits', a childhood favourite of Sherlock and his brother, and after a short while her attention was entirely absorbed in her culinary endeavours. John had hoped for this, and accordingly finished peeling the potatoes before making his move. Keeping a close watch on Mrs Hudson – something that was much easier of late – he sidled towards the door.

He made it into the corridor without being detected, and at once made good his escape, moving as quietly as possible and keeping a weather eye out for Sherlock or Raghnaid. He hadn't intended to go to the gardens, one of Raghnaid's favourite haunts, but one random turn he took brought him to a set of glass doors that must have been situated just below his own bedroom window. The copse of old oak trees that dominated his view from his little balcony stood a short distance away, across the beautifully manicured lawn.

Gratefully, John made for the trees and was soon hidden amongst them. With a sigh of relief, he leant against one of the sturdy trunks and closed his eyes, enjoying his moment of solitude. The wind blew gently, and the leaves above him rustled. It was lovely to be at peace, to have this little copse to himself. Sherlock's enervating, distracting company, Mrs Hudson's mothering and Raghnaid's constant vigilance had about worn him out, and he welcomed this chance to recuperate.

He had stood there for maybe five minutes when he heard Raghnaid's little chirrups of excitement as she chased bumble bees.

John opened his eyes and sighed again, this time in weariness. He knew he shouldn't have come to the garden. If he tried to head back into the mansion, the griffin would spot him for sure. On the other hand, if he stayed where he was, it would only be a matter of time before he was found. Raghnaid had a predator's eyes and ears, and any movement on his part would give the game away when she got close.

How he wished he could just hide away for a short while!

His hand brushed the bark of the tree he was leaning on.

And then it seemed to sink _through _the bark and into the trunk of the tree itself.

For a moment longer, he stood next to the tree...

And then he _was _the tree.

So it was that John found himself making the acquaintance of the old oak tree. He didn't have the faintest fucking idea about what had happened. But he wasn't frightened. He could _feel _nothing to be frightened about. But he could feel roots stretching deep, deep down into the earth, the sap pulsing through the wood of the tree, the leaves and smaller branches moving gently in the wind. Above all, there was a feeling of _oneness, _of being connected to _everything_, to the soil that sustained the oak tree, to the other trees, to the sky, the birds, the air... everything.

_Shelter_, something in his mind said. Not said, exactly, no – it was though a feeling of shelter and safety had been placed there. It was the tree. It was offering him shelter, in the best way it could. Somehow, it had sensed his desire to hide for a while, and had decided to help him.

It didn't strike John as remotely odd that a tree, of all things, had decided to hide him. He knew all that the tree knew, felt all it felt. He knew the tree knew all he knew, felt all he felt, but there was no sense of invasiveness, or of violation. The tree had no concept of human emotions like shame or disgust or privacy; it just accepted John and everything he was comprised of.

So John didn't fight whatever being had taken him inside itself, instead simply giving himself up to the extraordinary feeling of harmony and unison with the world, and felt the feelings of the oak tree as it continued on its eternal cycle of growing and living and regenerating.

* * *

Sherlock slept late as usual, and upon waking assumed human form and went straight to look for John. He wasn't in his room or the library or their living room, and a glance into the garden revealed Raghnaid at play by herself, so Mrs Hudson had to be watching over him. Sherlock accordingly went straight to the kitchen.

'Sherlock!' came Mrs Hudson's rather alarmed greeting as he went barrelling into the kitchen. 'Oh, couldn't you have left it a bit longer? I'm just getting ready to put my biscuits in the oven –'

Sherlock's gaze encompassed the massive room in its entirety, failed to spot John anywhere and focused back on Mrs Hudson in less than three seconds flat. 'Where's John, Mrs Hudson?' he demanded, interrupting her little lament.

'Why, he's just over there, dear – oh. Oh, _no_...'

'Oh, no?' Sherlock parroted crossly. 'You let him get out of your sight? After all we discussed about keeping him safe?'

They had indeed had quite a few discussions on that very subject, though Mrs Hudson had thought Sherlock was overdoing it a little. After all, as she pointed out, what trouble could John get into within the safe confines of the mansion and its grounds? 'Oh, I don't know, he's already found a griffin, maybe it'll be a basilisk next,' Sherlock had drawled sarcastically. Mrs Hudson had seen his point and agreed to keep a close watch on their doctor.

'I insisted he wasn't to be left alone at any time!' Sherlock continued, annoyed and with the unfamiliar sensation of worry beginning to gnaw at him.

'Oh, don't fret dear, he can't have gone far,' Mrs Hudson replied pleadingly, evidently sensing a tantrum of epic proportions coming on. Sherlock growled – literally – and stormed out of the kitchen, Mrs Hudson at his heels, muttering to himself about teaching common sense to biscuit-fixated housekeepers and idiotic, stubbornly independent doctors.

'Find him,' he ordered Mrs Hudson curtly. She headed for the gardens to question Raghnaid, and Sherlock headed towards the hallway with the pocket dimensions, having decided that process of elimination, starting with the most likely locations and working down to the less probable, was the best way to find John. After which, Sherlock planned on putting a bell and collar on the man. Or possibly just chaining him in his room.

* * *

Four hours later saw Mrs Hudson in tears, Raghnaid ripping rents in sundry bits of furniture out of frustration and Sherlock coolly and steadily losing his mind with fear and anxiety. They had gone over the entire mansion room by room, searched the grounds and garden, Raghnaid had taken to the skies and scouted the woods just in case John had left the estate for some reason, and yet they had found absolutely no trace of their missing friend. Sherlock had tried scriving for John in one of Mrs Hudson's salvaged mirrors, but had thrown the unfortunate object out of the window when the spell failed to work and kept showing him the cluster of oak trees in the mansion ground. He had even assumed beast form and tried to use his sensitive ears to track him down as he did his prey in the woods, but to no avail.

They had convened in the main hall of the house after their fruitless searching, with Mrs Hudson weeping, Raghnaid doing her best to comfort her and Sherlock pacing up and down in beast form, outwardly composed and inwardly a wreck. Fear was welling up in him like ice water, making it atrociously difficult to think.

All he could surmise was that the worst, the very worst, had somehow happened – that Moriarty had somehow penetrated the mansion's defences and spirited John away.

Sherlock had thought that no failure of his could possibly ever be as agonising as his ongoing failure to break his curse. Now he knew differently. He had failed to protect his friend adequately and the pain of losing him was unbearable. Gods, was he destined to lose everyone who he allowed to _mean _something?

And yet, and yet...

If it _was_ Moriarty's work, why do it so discreetly, straight in and out, leaving no calling card or mark of his presence? James Moriarty was many things, but unostentatious and subtle were not among them. If he had accomplished such a stunning victory over his greatest opponent, it was unthinkable that he would have simply left without gloating or bragging, without letting Sherlock know just who was responsible for John's disappearance. Besides, it was unclear if Moriarty was even aware of John's presence in the mansion.

But if Moriarty hadn't taken him, who – or what – the hell _had_?

Sherlock growled to himself, and strode for the front door, feeling trapped, confined, _helpless. _He threw it open and strode down the front steps, pausing only when he stood on soft grass, gulping in breaths of fresh air. He pressed a claw to his aching heart, feeling hopelessly lost and confused. _Where are you, John? _He called silently.

_Here._

Sherlock went rigid.

Had he imagined that?

_John? _He tried again, calling with his mind, not his voice.

_Yes. Here. _

Sherlock _felt _it that time, reaching him, tugging him, pulling at him. It was coming to him from – from the ground, somehow. Reaching through the earth and the grass and the stones to touch him and make him _know_. Eagerly, he followed it. Across the lawns, around the side of the mansion, towards the grounds at the back of the house, Sherlock followed the silent connection as if it were a red thread connecting John's heart to his own.

'Sherlock? Sherlock!' he heard Mrs Hudson call in bewilderment. He disregarded her cries, focusing on finding his friend.

The thread led him across yet more grass, past the pond and to –

_The copse of oak trees. _Gods, what a fool he was!

Sherlock shifted to human form, and ran forward to the trees, letting his hand rest on the nearest, then another, and then another. Until...

He stopped with his hand on a particularly handsome old oak, with a powerful trunk and gargantuan branches that carved the shadows lying on the ground into lacework. _This _was the tree, he could sense it somehow.

_John?_

_ Sherlock?_

He wasn't sure whether to weep in relief or throw a fit in anger at John's scaring them all half to death. Sherlock concentrated all his thoughts at the tree: _John Hamish Watson, come out this instant! _

A second later – Sherlock did not see precisely how it happened – John was standing next to the oak, looking somewhat dazed. 'Blimey,' he said confusedly. 'Hello, Sherlock. I think I was a tree for a bit.'

Sherlock took an instant to be overwhelmed with gratitude and joy that his friend was safe, and then allowed himself to dissolve into such incandescent fury that he was momentarily paralysed. Which gave Mrs Hudson and Raghnaid time to come running up. Raghnaid let out a squawk of happiness and Mrs Hudson started crying yet again.

'John!' Mrs Hudson flung herself at the bemused doctor and hugged him. Then she pulled back and clipped him smartly round the ear.

'Ouch!' he protested, putting a hand to the offended ear. 'What was that for?'

'For scaring us all silly!' she informed him, sniffling. 'We've been looking for you for four hours! We thought Moriarty had come and got you!'

'Four hours?' John asked in bewilderment. 'But – I was only gone for a few moments. I was – well, being a tree, I suppose. Not for very long though.'

'Being a – oh, of _course_,' Mrs Hudson exclaimed, as Raghnaid wandered up to the oak tree in question, burbling a few notes at it and watching with interest as the branches quivered in response. 'Violet's oaks! I should have guessed when Sherlock tried scriving for you. The tree decided to make your acquaintance, did it?'

'I suppose,' John muttered, regarding said tree with a mixture of awe and slight alarm. 'I was standing next to it, and then somehow I was _in _it, a part of it. And it was _alive_, and it was telling me things.'

The blurry shape that was Mrs Hudson bobbed what passed for its head. 'Of course it did, dear. Trees are as alive and as sentient as we are, in their own way. This one must have taken quite a liking to you to decide to harbour you like that. No wonder we couldn't find you using magic – trees are impervious to all forms of magic, unless they decide they want to work with a particular magician. Violet was one of the lucky few in that regard. These trees were nearly all planted by her, and she was friends with most of them.'

'You said I was gone for four hours?' John asked suddenly, as Mrs Hudson's earlier words penetrated his confusion. 'But – I _can't _have been.'

'You were, my dear,' Mrs Hudson informed him. 'Trees have a very different conception of time to humans, and what felt like a few moments to you while you were making friends was hours to us. You gave us all quite a scare.'

John looked deeply embarrassed. 'Oh, God. I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson. I just wanted a few minutes peace, I didn't mean to get kidnapped by an oak tree. And that's a sentence I never thought I'd use.'

'Oh, you weren't to know, dear,' Mrs Hudson comforted him. Raghnaid gave him a nip on one of his arms in reproach for frightening them all, before nuzzling up against his side to show he was forgiven.

Then it occurred to all three of them simultaneously that Sherlock hadn't said a word for several minutes.

'I'm going to go and check on my biscuits,' said Mrs Hudson decidedly, before beating a hasty retreat across the lawn. Raghnaid whistled a few notes at John that probably meant _good luck and hope you don't lose too much blood _and tore off after her.

John watched them go resignedly before turning to face his fate. One look at Sherlock and he knew it wasn't going to be pretty.

Sherlock's face was contorted with pure, mindless, unadulterated rage. 'What the _fuck _are you playing at?' he shouted without preamble. John winced.

'Sherlock...'

'I set everyone to watch you for a reason! And what do you do? Slip away the first chance you get and vanish! Are you really so stupid that you don't realise what could have happened?' Sherlock paused, not for breath, but as his fury choked him again. He recovered a second later and launched straight back into his tirade. 'No more, do you hear me? You'll do _exactly _as I instruct, or else you'll stay locked in your room and –'

'I will _not_!' John interrupted, his own not inconsiderable temper rising at Sherlock's threats. 'I'm sorry I scared you all, but there's no need to put me under twenty-four hour guard, I can take care of myself.'

'I beg to differ!' Sherlock spat furiously. 'First chance you get you get kidnapped by – by – bloody _firewood _and disappear for hours at a time! Forget fighting alongside me, you're going to do as you're damn well told and keep out of the way! If you won't do it willingly, then I'll – I'll –'

'Do what?' John demanded, his blood thoroughly up. 'Lock me up? Put me in chains? I am your prisoner, after all, you might as well treat me like one. I guess all that talk about being friends was just that – talk. It was only a sop to keep me happy while you do your curse-breaking thing. I'm just a means to an end. Well, to hell with you if that's what you think of me.'

John realised within a few moments of his angry response that he had gone too far. Sherlock's face blanched and he turned away, pressing his lips together in a thin line, skin turned pale and bloodless. John stared at him for a moment, clinging to his anger, but then it drained awake, leaving him feeling ashamed and very small.

'Sherlock?' he said, very softly. 'Sherlock, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have – it wasn't true. You're my friend, of course you are. My best friend.'

Sherlock did not turn around, refusing to look at John, his head bowed. John hesitated, before placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, feeling the muscles as tense and unyielding as iron. 'My best friend,' he said again, not knowing what else to come out with. Sherlock heaved a deep sigh and raised his head, though he still did not look round. Had John but known it, although Sherlock was unstrung and in turmoil from the terrible fright he'd undergone, it was those gentle words that undid a lifetime of un-emotion, and that loosened Sherlock's tongue and let him say what the situation demanded of him.

'I thought I'd lost you.'

John started in surprise at the quiet statement. Sherlock must have felt his movement, because his hand came up to cover John's, though he still did not turn to face him.

'I thought I'd lost you,' Sherlock repeated roughly. 'I thought Moriarty had gotten to you somehow. It – it was – Gods!' He took a deep breath, his fingers convulsing with emotion where they clutched at John's hand. 'It was fucking agony, all right? This place was dead before you came. It was a graveyard, a mausoleum. I had nothing. The only reason I didn't throw myself off the roof was because Mrs Hudson would have been left alone here. Then you came.'

John stared at Sherlock, appalled by the depth of suffering revealed in those emotional, distracted words. He opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock beat him to it.

'And just now I thought you were gone. I couldn't bear it. I _can't _go back to the way things were, the way they used to be. I won't. You have to understand that. If I lose you, I lose everything.'

John wished the tree would swallow him up again, or failing that, the more traditional ground would do nicely. But he shoved aside his feelings of shame and self-reproach to wallow in later, and taking a firm hold of Sherlock, spun him round so he could look up into his face. In contrast to his tormented words, his face was immobile, as though it had been carved out of marble.

'You won't lose me,' John told him quietly but firmly. 'I won't leave you, not willingly. We don't have to worry so long as we stick together and trust each other. I trust you, so do the same for me.' He took a deep breath. 'And I want you to promise me that no matter what happens, you won't ever think of hurting yourself again. You said you don't want to lose me – well, I don't want to lose you either. I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you.' He reached up a hand to brush aside one of Sherlock's dark curls that had fallen across his high, pale forehead. The gesture, so intimate, so foreign to their current fierce encounter, seemed to quell Sherlock's anger and misery somewhat, and his impassive face melted into the faintest of smiles.

John quirked the corners of his mouth up in response, but his voice remained low and serious as he spoke. 'Promise me,' he repeated urgently. 'Promise you won't think of – of hurting yourself. That you'll stay strong.'

Sherlock nodded imperceptibly. 'I promise,' he said softly.

And then – Sherlock went rigid, as though something had struck him, a powerful blow that turned his already pale face white to the lips. He staggered where he stood, his knees bowing so he slumped forward. Alarmed, John caught him in his arms, and carefully lowered them both to the ground. He knelt and cradled Sherlock against him, resting the other man's head on his shoulder, feeling the other main coiled tense and unyielding against his smaller frame. He held Sherlock tight, not sure what was going on.

'Sherlock?' he murmured, controlling his panic. 'Sherlock, what is it?'

Abruptly, Sherlock let out a gasp and relaxed against John, limp and totally spent. John looked him over quickly, then, satisfied that Sherlock was no longer in pain, contented himself with merely holding the other man, running a gentle hand over his unruly hair as Sherlock had once done for him.

'Sherlock?' he asked again. 'What was that? Are you injured?'

'No,' the other man managed with an effort. 'I'm fine, John, don't worry.'

John ignored that little injunction and continued to worry. 'What was it? What can I do?' he said gently.

'Hold me,' Sherlock answered simply.

John did as he was told that time.

* * *

**Author's notes: **That was perhaps a little OOC for Sherlock, but _The Sign of Three _contained a _lot _of feels (I'll say no more for now) so I reckon I can get away with it ;-) So, the oak tree... the small and simple magicks are massing, and perhaps that's where Sherlock will find his freedom... Ooh, I do love being cryptic! Tell next time, dear readers!


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